Arch(i)texture

jennifer Avery

We Were So Grand in the FiSh Gut VerSailleS

liGht : the cathedral the museum

ornament: the brothel

dilapidation as Staunch Characters

The lost Chapter: Carriages Steamships and Baba Yaga

(delirium) doll houSe repliCa copy copy copy SCale

interVeninG Chapter

and there iS a Grid: Children’S GameS of the rib Cage Frame and incorruptible Corpse CorruptiBle SpaCe

Chapter on lines

Façade: the labyrinth, the surrealist house

We Were So Grand in the Fish Gut Versailles

First there are the countless problems of the brittle porcelain calcium floor, ceilings walls all molding

into one foolish dome. this could, however, be an egg of Faberge; wrought in fiddled labored lines and

the grand space of a tinker, polishing emeralds from rocks and wrapping them with window frames. not

everything lovely is gilded- even the aforementioned anachronism. this is decay, or decomposition in flea.

(puce as it was in Versailles, the grey pink brown violet taffeta that all the sliding towers topped in ostrich ribbon

coveted to the misfortune of Sixteen. like tiny bloody stains on bed sheets that even Borax cannot remove.)

a cavity of the mongers’ arch procures a stench not even circulating gills alleviate. our sweet egg, forgotten after a pastel

easter celebration, is threadinG Stink under the floor board. First a charcoal dark-no, no i bet they see red domes with

ivy membranes letting in lights- and it falls sacked by cocardes bearing a purple and green disease. there must of course

be blood before a denaturing of protein. the changed mortar- elastic, thick and floating down halls of mirrors and doors

with handles so large only powdered wig valets can touch them; always with a crack crack crack on the metal mixing bowl.

Viscerals, eggs, Versailles were delicate sulfur faint places. Sprites of the staircase tumbling velvet, melting on gold;

in tandem with pearls of ants marching in a death sea anemic bowel. Buttermilk soldiers spawn up river for ovum. they

hunt for the warm and dense at the center. this is a chateau, no a cathedral. no miStreSS or monarCh will wander

down eph hall, the loveliest loftiest tunnel suspended with the aforementioned mirrors, ants, wigs and velvet guts. the

abbess in her anchorage, no, no, the favorite of the court repeats a dressing cycle in her own room. more fabric, another

garment, inches of powder until she is too cumbersome, too heavy in jewels, too much hair, too many hands from ladies

maids and princesses of the blood. She over ripens and threadS Stink. She stays there, under doors in that tiny space

given to open and fade to theatrical bronze statues. (of course, of the picturesque, but- this is a process and it hurts.)

First there are the countless problems of the brittle porcelain calcium floor, ceilings walls all molding

into one foolish dome. this could, however, be an egg of Faberge; wrought in fiddled labored lines and

the grand space of a tinker, polishing emeralds from rocks and wrapping them with window frames. not

everything lovely is gilded- even the aforementioned anachronism. this is decay, or decomposition in flea.

(puce as it was in Versailles, the grey pink brown violet taffeta that all the sliding towers topped in ostrich ribbon

coveted to the misfortune of Sixteen. like tiny bloody stains on bed sheets that even Borax cannot remove.)

a cavity of the mongers’ arch procures a stench not even circulating gills alleviate. our sweet egg, forgotten after a pastel

easter celebration, is threadinG Stink under the floor board. First a charcoal dark-no, no i bet they see red domes with

ivy membranes letting in lights- and it falls sacked by cocardes bearing a purple and green disease. there must of course

be blood before a denaturing of protein. the changed mortar- elastic, thick and floating down halls of mirrors and doors

with handles so large only powdered wig valets can touch them; always with a crack crack crack on the metal mixing bowl.

Viscerals, eggs, Versailles were delicate sulfur faint places. Sprites of the staircase tumbling velvet, melting on gold;

in tandem with pearls of ants marching in a death sea anemic bowel. Buttermilk soldiers spawn up river for ovum. they

hunt for the warm and dense at the center. this is a chateau, no a cathedral. no miStreSS or monarCh will wander

down eph hall, the loveliest loftiest tunnel suspended with the aforementioned mirrors, ants, wigs and velvet guts. the

abbess in her anchorage, no, no, the favorite of the court repeats a dressing cycle in her own room. more fabric, another

garment, inches of powder until she is too cumbersome, too heavy in jewels, too much hair, too many hands from ladies

maids and princesses of the blood. She over ripens and threadS Stink. She stays there, under doors in that tiny space

given to open and fade to theatrical bronze statues. (of course, of the picturesque, but- this is a process and it hurts.)

When gutting a fish always steer clear of the and second floor.

it is haunted.

When gutting a fish always steer clear of the and second floor.

it is haunted.

When drawing Versailles do not forget to arch your back.

When drawing Versailles do not forget to arch your back.

When smashing eggs wear lace gloves and bricks.

When smashing eggs wear lace gloves and bricks.

light: the Cathedral the museum

light: the Cathedral the museum

“is there one of us who hasn’t in his memories a Bluebeard chamber that should not have been opened, even half-way?” Gaston Bachelard, “the poetics of Space”

“is there one of us who hasn’t in his memories a Bluebeard chamber that should not have been opened, even half-way?” Gaston Bachelard, “the poetics of Space”

the glittering peaks washed frenzied warm lights down the angled and bubbling aligned spire. the canopy tomb

complete with doric columns swelling mid belly as Satis snakes. exiting the room of blonds where the

corpus Christie’s auction house dipped slowly into the pale blue urn, the room governed by a miserable kittle

beast, spiking power, with the toothpick legs and magical baubles of clay, plastic and glass swathed in ribbons

sharp blond hair cut giant spectacles that flash and shimmer and block all fluffy essence of the creature’s soul.

there were mysteries of construction hidden behind the curving wooden torso, the popping nipples, the She Wolf of France

would have kneeled in adoration, picturing edward the slumpy rag doll and sucked on the wimple. i just wanted to see

behind hit, get a bit of jolly pops from tool marks and intention. Frozen ripped turned gridiron with green and pink flesh,

no halo leaking scars upon an oliVe Green Blade. Your head got too close to that head and this will not do. eerie thirty

minutes the halos extinguish and the other minders filter through in black authority and flip something on the blind.

the sun snaps and presses upon the shade. it wants to see the monstrance too. the tint

gilded wonder with bricks and arches. housing the host. the transcribed body of a sacred

thought, rays of sun circling always circling when i though light was a piercing pin beam.

it always points down, the perspective is constantly from above, a frowning face a beacon of pessimism upon

the altar. however things nooks and rooks and tiny corners are so very vast. the spire inside the spire, the gild if

gold and gold wants so to be light- the true alchemy- the real experiment- eight crocodile tears and demon names.

Walking the room, recall the extinct, yearning for the best object to be the monstrance.

the glittering peaks washed frenzied warm lights down the angled and bubbling aligned spire. the canopy tomb

complete with doric columns swelling mid belly as Satis snakes. exiting the room of blonds where the

corpus Christie’s auction house dipped slowly into the pale blue urn, the room governed by a miserable kittle

beast, spiking power, with the toothpick legs and magical baubles of clay, plastic and glass swathed in ribbons

sharp blond hair cut giant spectacles that flash and shimmer and block all fluffy essence of the creature’s soul.

there were mysteries of construction hidden behind the curving wooden torso, the popping nipples, the She Wolf of France

would have kneeled in adoration, picturing edward the slumpy rag doll and sucked on the wimple. i just wanted to see

behind hit, get a bit of jolly pops from tool marks and intention. Frozen ripped turned gridiron with green and pink flesh,

no halo leaking scars upon an oliVe Green Blade. Your head got too close to that head and this will not do. eerie thirty

minutes the halos extinguish and the other minders filter through in black authority and flip something on the blind.

the sun snaps and presses upon the shade. it wants to see the monstrance too. the tint

gilded wonder with bricks and arches. housing the host. the transcribed body of a sacred

thought, rays of sun circling always circling when i though light was a piercing pin beam.

it always points down, the perspective is constantly from above, a frowning face a beacon of pessimism upon

the altar. however things nooks and rooks and tiny corners are so very vast. the spire inside the spire, the gild if

gold and gold wants so to be light- the true alchemy- the real experiment- eight crocodile tears and demon names.

Walking the room, recall the extinct, yearning for the best object to be the monstrance.

T h e s e ar e s m a l l p r e c i o u s ob j e c t s t h at p r i e s t s o r t h o s e o f t h e u p p e r hi e r ar c hy o f t h e c hu r c h w o u l d

h av e d i r e c t a c c e s s e s b y m e an s o f t o u c hi ng, b u t a l l p ar t i c i p ant s w o u l d w at c h t h e s e ob j e c t s w i t h

aw e . I am e s p e c i a l ly i nt e r e s t e d i n h o w t h e Mo n s t r an c e an d t h e P y x w hi c h ar e m a d e t o h o u s e t h e

Eu c h ar i s t ( t h e b o dy o f C hr i s t ) mi mi c ar c hi t e c t u r e , c hu r c h e s t h at w o u l d h o u s e t h e b o d i e s i n a

c hu r c h . T hi s mi ni at u r e mi mi c k i ng o f b o dy i s f a s c i n at i ng t o m e . T h e P y x , an e n am e l an d g i l t c o p p e r

c i r c u l ar s h ap e d c o nt ai n e r w a s m a d e t o c ar r y o r s t o r e t h e Eu c h ar i s t w h e n i t w a s u s e d o u t s i d e o f t h e

c hu r c h , l i k e a d mi ni s t e r i ng Ho ly C o mmu ni o n t o t h e s i c k . T h e l o o p i ng d e t ai l s mi mi c s t a i n e d g l a s s

an d p e a k e d l i d w i t h c r o s s mi mi c a s t e e p l e , b o t h i l l u s i o n s t o c at h e d r a l s , h o u s e s o f t h e L o r d . T h e

Mo n s t r an c e i s a l s o d e s ig n e d l i k e a g l o r i o u s c at h e d r a l s p i r e , c o mp l e t e w i t h b u t t r e s s e s , g o t hi c ar c hi ng

w i n d o w s , an d s t o n e m a s o nr y. Wa l k i ng i n t h e e ar ly r e n ai s s an c e r o o m I h o p e d ag ai n s t h o p e t h at t h e

o r n at e ob j e c t w a s t h e Mo n s t r an c e , i t l e a k s aw e an d w o n d e r. It i s p e r f e c t ly d e s ig n e d i n i t s s p l e n d o r

t o i n d u c e a d mi r at i o n , a s i t s h o u l d b e i ng a d i s p l ay o f w e a l t h an d p i e t y an d a r e s t i ng p l a c e f o r t h e

c o n s e c r at e d h o s t . It i s a h o ly d e c o r at i o n , p r o t e c t i ng an d ann o u n c i ng w h at e v e r h o ly ob j e c t s ar e w i t hi n .

T h e s e ar e s m a l l p r e c i o u s ob j e c t s t h at p r i e s t s o r t h o s e o f t h e u p p e r hi e r ar c hy o f t h e c hu r c h w o u l d

h av e d i r e c t a c c e s s e s b y m e an s o f t o u c hi ng, b u t a l l p ar t i c i p ant s w o u l d w at c h t h e s e ob j e c t s w i t h

aw e . I am e s p e c i a l ly i nt e r e s t e d i n h o w t h e Mo n s t r an c e an d t h e P y x w hi c h ar e m a d e t o h o u s e t h e

Eu c h ar i s t ( t h e b o dy o f C hr i s t ) mi mi c ar c hi t e c t u r e , c hu r c h e s t h at w o u l d h o u s e t h e b o d i e s i n a

c hu r c h . T hi s mi ni at u r e mi mi c k i ng o f b o dy i s f a s c i n at i ng t o m e . T h e P y x , an e n am e l an d g i l t c o p p e r

c i r c u l ar s h ap e d c o nt ai n e r w a s m a d e t o c ar r y o r s t o r e t h e Eu c h ar i s t w h e n i t w a s u s e d o u t s i d e o f t h e

c hu r c h , l i k e a d mi ni s t e r i ng Ho ly C o mmu ni o n t o t h e s i c k . T h e l o o p i ng d e t ai l s mi mi c s t a i n e d g l a s s

an d p e a k e d l i d w i t h c r o s s mi mi c a s t e e p l e , b o t h i l l u s i o n s t o c at h e d r a l s , h o u s e s o f t h e L o r d . T h e

Mo n s t r an c e i s a l s o d e s ig n e d l i k e a g l o r i o u s c at h e d r a l s p i r e , c o mp l e t e w i t h b u t t r e s s e s , g o t hi c ar c hi ng

w i n d o w s , an d s t o n e m a s o nr y. Wa l k i ng i n t h e e ar ly r e n ai s s an c e r o o m I h o p e d ag ai n s t h o p e t h at t h e

o r n at e ob j e c t w a s t h e Mo n s t r an c e , i t l e a k s aw e an d w o n d e r. It i s p e r f e c t ly d e s ig n e d i n i t s s p l e n d o r

t o i n d u c e a d mi r at i o n , a s i t s h o u l d b e i ng a d i s p l ay o f w e a l t h an d p i e t y an d a r e s t i ng p l a c e f o r t h e

c o n s e c r at e d h o s t . It i s a h o ly d e c o r at i o n , p r o t e c t i ng an d ann o u n c i ng w h at e v e r h o ly ob j e c t s ar e w i t hi n .

the Sharp touCh, the regret, the chipper veil to weasel out of meeting predecessors without bodies,

long strands of red dresses knitting the darkness of the stone tomb. dangerous experience foods on.

the old neighbor told the feral child they were going to a party on Sunday morning. this party

was in the stale basement of grand pointy building with many rows and many fences. the child was

deposited in a room that smelt like children and dust, while also containing many other children and

dust. they passed out little circles made of construction paper. red ones, White ones Blue ones.

the man in beard and purple scarf at the front of the room told the children to describe their rough colored circle in the realm

of the natural, in the realm of the built by the great almighty. Berries and clouds and the sea were invoked, until it was the feral

child’s turn. She presented a grand discourse on a luxurious rabbit fur coat that supervised her at macys while her mother

hunted. She fondled this expensive garment for days and the soft pure rays with the amazing tag of price left quite the impression.

every one narrowed eyes and sneered and the beast girl was chastised for vanity and objects made by

man. they were upset when she wanted to keep the white circle and dance on the wooden floor under

the stretching man. this was a party. there was no soaring with the pointy ceiling, no awe at the velvet

and gold, no radiation of an inner light. the pretty colors of stained glass were all brown and grey.

the old neighbor brought her home, a very bad girl.

the Sharp touCh, the regret, the chipper veil to weasel out of meeting predecessors without bodies,

long strands of red dresses knitting the darkness of the stone tomb. dangerous experience foods on.

the old neighbor told the feral child they were going to a party on Sunday morning. this party

was in the stale basement of grand pointy building with many rows and many fences. the child was

deposited in a room that smelt like children and dust, while also containing many other children and

dust. they passed out little circles made of construction paper. red ones, White ones Blue ones.

the man in beard and purple scarf at the front of the room told the children to describe their rough colored circle in the realm

of the natural, in the realm of the built by the great almighty. Berries and clouds and the sea were invoked, until it was the feral

child’s turn. She presented a grand discourse on a luxurious rabbit fur coat that supervised her at macys while her mother

hunted. She fondled this expensive garment for days and the soft pure rays with the amazing tag of price left quite the impression.

every one narrowed eyes and sneered and the beast girl was chastised for vanity and objects made by

man. they were upset when she wanted to keep the white circle and dance on the wooden floor under

the stretching man. this was a party. there was no soaring with the pointy ceiling, no awe at the velvet

and gold, no radiation of an inner light. the pretty colors of stained glass were all brown and grey.

the old neighbor brought her home, a very bad girl.

ornament: the Brothel

a half world is something to ponder. demi-monde like demigod. is it always a gloaming there? Glowing

with a phosphorescent indecency, can there be pleasure in business in a land called Story Ville soaked with

mahogany halls? Spiraling steps , sometimes iron, sometimes covered in oriental rugs like a thick frosting,

makes a poet always feel oneself, surrounded by the finest silks and servants. Fabric sits to battle on the raw wood

of things. Gates become iron vines. a twist, a curve of the body- and all harpoons have homes. at times these

are a wound homes. Walls have buttresses, carved to a thick decadences (always asking is this truly opulent?)

a frog, an acorn posing with flowers and other reproductive organs “hush hush” the tenants in a wooden

sheen. polished off as it were, in a house with many rooms. her heart chamber functions as a sitting room, a

judging room, a department store and a tavern. this craving to use the new techniques in mimicking the past.

this damaSk and that damaSk the animal nature the forest frozen on yardage, stuffed into pillows trimmed with

tassels. the iron vines that were gates now become allegorical pillars for round gas lamps. topless wonder full the

space crawling with reproductions of more topless wonders. Fireplaces with white stone muses lounging and beds with

monstrous clawed feet. the structure is sound, the decoration makes it comforting. organs as pretty as they eye, the flawless

skin, the soft tresses. the embellishments tell the truth, in excesses and form. is it organic in purpose, flowing form?

F r i e z e !

a half world is something to ponder. demi-monde like demigod. is it always a gloaming there? Glowing

with a phosphorescent indecency, can there be pleasure in business in a land called Story Ville soaked with

mahogany halls? Spiraling steps , sometimes iron, sometimes covered in oriental rugs like a thick frosting,

makes a poet always feel oneself, surrounded by the finest silks and servants. Fabric sits to battle on the raw wood

of things. Gates become iron vines. a twist, a curve of the body- and all harpoons have homes. at times these

are a wound homes. Walls have buttresses, carved to a thick decadences (always asking is this truly opulent?)

a frog, an acorn posing with flowers and other reproductive organs “hush hush” the tenants in a wooden

sheen. polished off as it were, in a house with many rooms. her heart chamber functions as a sitting room, a

judging room, a department store and a tavern. this craving to use the new techniques in mimicking the past.

this damaSk and that damaSk the animal nature the forest frozen on yardage, stuffed into pillows trimmed with

tassels. the iron vines that were gates now become allegorical pillars for round gas lamps. topless wonder full the

space crawling with reproductions of more topless wonders. Fireplaces with white stone muses lounging and beds with

monstrous clawed feet. the structure is sound, the decoration makes it comforting. organs as pretty as they eye, the flawless

skin, the soft tresses. the embellishments tell the truth, in excesses and form. is it organic in purpose, flowing form?

F r i e z e !

arching to a corner intercourse supported by the vapid come-hither faces of persistence and prudence their hat makes the structure.

Garlands of pomegranates flow out their ears withering upon a blank shield all this curling

and writhing about with hot irons and rouge. Sewing the concrete, sewing the marble, darning

the doorways with Sex. Forgetting the goal and only dedication to the ritual, mating.

to fornicate in lofty ceilings, while sleeping in dull splintery garrets; hiding from

the day, what does a life without sun shine cost? think of the distribution of a city.

red liGht red liGht.

Wondering down a cobble street- everything can be grey. Walk with a small ermine that is hungry and lingers

well past its welcome. the seamstress had a fitting in a round room, mirrors and chandeliers reflected light

but not faces in a soft warm shift. She stitched mansard roofs in to the peel away dresses to quench a

lust for decoration. Shelter became sweet concoctions of lace cake with a body in every nook to keep the

pigeons out. ladybirds giggle upon a business transaction like dancing labors persistent thoughts.

the home the house, the mansion, the chateau with electrified spires punctuated with flesh round windows. in other

homes like this, more of a stack of jeWelrY BoxeS, but still the fabric hugs and sways from the ceilings. the

customer trades deep emerald and Safire for sunset pink and tangerine. the thin pure peasants toss out their dirty water

with gold dust sponges burning the night. the night does not weigh anything but gentleman callers do. like ceilings.

arching to a corner intercourse supported by the vapid come-hither faces of persistence and prudence their hat makes the structure.

Garlands of pomegranates flow out their ears withering upon a blank shield all this curling

and writhing about with hot irons and rouge. Sewing the concrete, sewing the marble, darning

the doorways with Sex. Forgetting the goal and only dedication to the ritual, mating.

to fornicate in lofty ceilings, while sleeping in dull splintery garrets; hiding from

the day, what does a life without sun shine cost? think of the distribution of a city.

red liGht red liGht.

Wondering down a cobble street- everything can be grey. Walk with a small ermine that is hungry and lingers

well past its welcome. the seamstress had a fitting in a round room, mirrors and chandeliers reflected light

but not faces in a soft warm shift. She stitched mansard roofs in to the peel away dresses to quench a

lust for decoration. Shelter became sweet concoctions of lace cake with a body in every nook to keep the

pigeons out. ladybirds giggle upon a business transaction like dancing labors persistent thoughts.

the home the house, the mansion, the chateau with electrified spires punctuated with flesh round windows. in other

homes like this, more of a stack of jeWelrY BoxeS, but still the fabric hugs and sways from the ceilings. the

customer trades deep emerald and Safire for sunset pink and tangerine. the thin pure peasants toss out their dirty water

with gold dust sponges burning the night. the night does not weigh anything but gentleman callers do. like ceilings.

for peeking out. all this time, wound up with soft carpeting, taSSelS are watching in a corner: the swollen extremities

of twisted slippery silk cords. most times one walks so quietly in a tip toe but then the men pay to thrash about this

house slamming their heads into its warmth and secret passages. always delighted with the show and two pools of water.

Watching the home dressed up like a trollip and wondering why, but all for beauty.

to seduce and collect secrets, the curves and piles of myth are hiding something.

dizzy with the intimacy the difficulty must imply worth.

Could it be more impersonal, please

the eye of every passerby?

masks for VulGaritY, even a shack gets roses and gilded lilies. Wash the extra CalorieS with more than rain!

for peeking out. all this time, wound up with soft carpeting, taSSelS are watching in a corner: the swollen extremities

of twisted slippery silk cords. most times one walks so quietly in a tip toe but then the men pay to thrash about this

house slamming their heads into its warmth and secret passages. always delighted with the show and two pools of water.

Watching the home dressed up like a trollip and wondering why, but all for beauty.

to seduce and collect secrets, the curves and piles of myth are hiding something.

dizzy with the intimacy the difficulty must imply worth.

Could it be more impersonal, please

the eye of every passerby?

masks for VulGaritY, even a shack gets roses and gilded lilies. Wash the extra CalorieS with more than rain!

dilapidation aS staunch CharaCters

dilapidation aS staunch CharaCters

Walk the plank walk the plank walk the plank

to a mounding day dream or night dream or wet dream between soft sheets sparkled in levels

orange rabbits and leather boots

Walk the plank walk the plank walk the plank

to a mounding day dream or night dream or wet dream between soft sheets sparkled in levels

orange rabbits and leather boots

poised hands in self please upon the stomach crushed whisper. this projection is severe and yet the

strength of forty chins dropping with potential swollen to the gourd face with too much of a fine intention.

a house built from a cave from the hill, a hand built from an arm from the blouse. From the flying

lever, to the ground in front females in conversation intersectioning the texture beyond the wrist

clasping the tips to touch silk, to the death of the drowned, the bitter end gazing up in snobbish delirium.

the chick that died in the rain watching the clouds making shapes from adipose flesh and imagination.

dogs can’t look up. pride in this deep construction, and a disregard for balance it makes magic,

defines the laws of uplift and yet is supported in mathematical letters. But the logic cuts a barren

scape the tree-tresses were sacrificed to the bridge to build the illusion of floatation and roof.

Cantilever can’t it lever can it never.

Clara was so very board she peeled the flowers off her dress, and ate them. they became wedged in the

throat and made homes. What she could not eat she wedged in her sensible pocket book. Clara was so very

board she had no interest in her sisters divining rod or miraculous beam, did not respect the dance and

squished her stomach into to it, directly below the breast on the shared boundary line of one white square

framed in blue with mocking red bleeps to another white square framed in blue with mocking red bleeps.

Firm in the ground rooted to the earth- the pit- the mud- because as above and so below them have a long

steel rod, a terrible and sad bone growth from the calcaneus. if upon its side the support is a terrible weight.

poised hands in self please upon the stomach crushed whisper. this projection is severe and yet the

strength of forty chins dropping with potential swollen to the gourd face with too much of a fine intention.

a house built from a cave from the hill, a hand built from an arm from the blouse. From the flying

lever, to the ground in front females in conversation intersectioning the texture beyond the wrist

clasping the tips to touch silk, to the death of the drowned, the bitter end gazing up in snobbish delirium.

the chick that died in the rain watching the clouds making shapes from adipose flesh and imagination.

dogs can’t look up. pride in this deep construction, and a disregard for balance it makes magic,

defines the laws of uplift and yet is supported in mathematical letters. But the logic cuts a barren

scape the tree-tresses were sacrificed to the bridge to build the illusion of floatation and roof.

Cantilever can’t it lever can it never.

Clara was so very board she peeled the flowers off her dress, and ate them. they became wedged in the

throat and made homes. What she could not eat she wedged in her sensible pocket book. Clara was so very

board she had no interest in her sisters divining rod or miraculous beam, did not respect the dance and

squished her stomach into to it, directly below the breast on the shared boundary line of one white square

framed in blue with mocking red bleeps to another white square framed in blue with mocking red bleeps.

Firm in the ground rooted to the earth- the pit- the mud- because as above and so below them have a long

steel rod, a terrible and sad bone growth from the calcaneus. if upon its side the support is a terrible weight.

and i needn’t remind that they we, or it is not necessarily upright but extending from a spheres that spins.

the StreSS oF GraSS BladeS takinG jumpinG leSSonS.

the gardens are grey, little eddy springs as minerva from Big eddie and the sorrow is

brave. perry held her ground feeding thoughts rooted in time spent alone out her fingertips.

the balance was very important. a lady may decide to create this great illusion on her own and create

the sensation of always standing on her own- a great force, a pillar of support, a horizontal atlas, or.

the support must decay like organic pips have the sham to condescend, and yet she

may continually extend, maneuvering out of pressure with pattern and haught.

Weakness becomes a deeper illusion than strength.

and i needn’t remind that they we, or it is not necessarily upright but extending from a spheres that spins.

the StreSS oF GraSS BladeS takinG jumpinG leSSonS.

the gardens are grey, little eddy springs as minerva from Big eddie and the sorrow is

brave. perry held her ground feeding thoughts rooted in time spent alone out her fingertips.

the balance was very important. a lady may decide to create this great illusion on her own and create

the sensation of always standing on her own- a great force, a pillar of support, a horizontal atlas, or.

the support must decay like organic pips have the sham to condescend, and yet she

may continually extend, maneuvering out of pressure with pattern and haught.

Weakness becomes a deeper illusion than strength.

carriages, Steamships and Baba yaga

the sea the sea the waves are too rough rough. We should ride them. Green blur white blur circles

of yellow orange sun glint glint glint and a thriving motion. houses not in place houses on the move

move move. tiny homes with very little space for lovemaking, pounding ceilings and belts buckles and

wheels. Where do the knees go thickening thighs and VelVet itchy with chip crumbs? So many wheels.

Getting caught getting caught faster faster turning miles, slow steady humming not a graveling bumping turning up dirt in dusty

wild roads with no tar. doc takes the wheel. Burly took his driving. doctor drives and touch clutch hands. taking the posted

hours as in versions and loping the bridge the hill the trick or treat road in tummy ticking moments. Blue blue red at twenty

twenty twenty six filthy vehicle the little house swarming in cylinder junk and a movie about the refuse byproduct of a lotus

eater with alicia Witt’s bottom in cut offs. Beaming lights of mortification and two hundred dollar Freudian slips. red West.

im a gin th e roc k ing of a car rrarrrarr ige ev en whe n li ned with tas ssssss les wo od den wh ells on grrrrrrrra

velllllllllll ry th um cr aw liiiiin li ne arr w ith t he gai ttt of horrrr sessssss. Stability in pod domes and

slow landscapes. the definition of fast is always dyeing. Could the rocking be a womb? a thick cradle?

last summer we filmed a collage video for BmW. there were German filmmakers questioning thomaS filming him

running tapped over abdias logos. Filming my hairy legs in lace up boots steel toed with a red below the knee dress and

tiny lil flowers stomping on mountains of paper ripped cut out rolls royce mini coop and shark nose. the boiler room

then studio space. never never land is architecture of Barre. and the place has gone to shit since Wendybird went to ivy.

SaraH: Back from Bermuda... but I still feel like I’m on a ship... whooo...

Crutch creatch steep, scratch peck peck a house caws with chicken feet made of bones a nest of bones. the cauldron is

cursing winds and clouds a moos breathy cold snapping and ice stars. the wild witch knowing on thinking thighs and

knees where do the knees go? talons pulling a thatched ceiling wobbling side to side the robust twitching in a grass of

feathers. What if it wasn’t an iron pot but wooden butter churning sticking hair straight with speed rrruuusssshhhhhhhh?

the sea the sea the waves are too rough rough. We should ride them. Green blur white blur circles

of yellow orange sun glint glint glint and a thriving motion. houses not in place houses on the move

move move. tiny homes with very little space for lovemaking, pounding ceilings and belts buckles and

wheels. Where do the knees go thickening thighs and VelVet itchy with chip crumbs? So many wheels.

Getting caught getting caught faster faster turning miles, slow steady humming not a graveling bumping turning up dirt in dusty

wild roads with no tar. doc takes the wheel. Burly took his driving. doctor drives and touch clutch hands. taking the posted

hours as in versions and loping the bridge the hill the trick or treat road in tummy ticking moments. Blue blue red at twenty

twenty twenty six filthy vehicle the little house swarming in cylinder junk and a movie about the refuse byproduct of a lotus

eater with alicia Witt’s bottom in cut offs. Beaming lights of mortification and two hundred dollar Freudian slips. red West.

im a gin th e roc k ing of a car rrarrrarr ige ev en whe n li ned with tas ssssss les wo od den wh ells on grrrrrrrra

velllllllllll ry th um cr aw liiiiin li ne arr w ith t he gai ttt of horrrr sessssss. Stability in pod domes and

slow landscapes. the definition of fast is always dyeing. Could the rocking be a womb? a thick cradle?

last summer we filmed a collage video for BmW. there were German filmmakers questioning thomaS filming him

running tapped over abdias logos. Filming my hairy legs in lace up boots steel toed with a red below the knee dress and

tiny lil flowers stomping on mountains of paper ripped cut out rolls royce mini coop and shark nose. the boiler room

then studio space. never never land is architecture of Barre. and the place has gone to shit since Wendybird went to ivy.

SaraH: Back from Bermuda... but I still feel like I’m on a ship... whooo...

Crutch creatch steep, scratch peck peck a house caws with chicken feet made of bones a nest of bones. the cauldron is

cursing winds and clouds a moos breathy cold snapping and ice stars. the wild witch knowing on thinking thighs and

knees where do the knees go? talons pulling a thatched ceiling wobbling side to side the robust twitching in a grass of

feathers. What if it wasn’t an iron pot but wooden butter churning sticking hair straight with speed rrruuusssshhhhhhhh?

(delirium) doll house replica copy copy copy Scale

(delirium) doll house replica copy copy copy Scale

the tynie bits. eyelashes. piles of window frames unpainted balsa wood. (is it even a wood- much more like layers of oak

tag paper cooked too long in a samovar?) one to eighteen is not preferred over one to twelve, when the copies pop inside

clever hands can count on a one to one hundred and forty four. i recall it once was delight, but these things do tend to go

into intoxication, fever and other disorders. We tried to make it percise, but smaller, and the next smaller than that. toys

and collections and models- tiny wishes and dreams of what they could become and the very first dream with a bean sìth.

a tynie wench calling out over the water tickle over a broken kitten- begging; no no take me! it becomes a

drawing an assortment of lines churn out plans for the tynie houses in factories blurring the mechanical

press with the motion of repetition. everyone gets the same box. i crave to overpower the structure,

to wear it rather than the house always wearing me. or is the house always eating me? Some

sweet pettieFour-pettiCoat shifting from spleen to stomach covered in an acid shawl.

Some Queen, (a British one of course) has a doll house.

there is a Christmas ornament of it. a silent movie star no longer craving a close up has one too. how morose her

granddaughter Sarah rothe looks! how knee bent a faded ballerina stocking, slouching the leg warmers. more

show piece than toy. i want to dominate the chateau smash it with fists and kicks rather than crawl about its guts.

tynie furniture looking so grim.

the tynie bits. eyelashes. piles of window frames unpainted balsa wood. (is it even a wood- much more like layers of oak

tag paper cooked too long in a samovar?) one to eighteen is not preferred over one to twelve, when the copies pop inside

clever hands can count on a one to one hundred and forty four. i recall it once was delight, but these things do tend to go

into intoxication, fever and other disorders. We tried to make it percise, but smaller, and the next smaller than that. toys

and collections and models- tiny wishes and dreams of what they could become and the very first dream with a bean sìth.

a tynie wench calling out over the water tickle over a broken kitten- begging; no no take me! it becomes a

drawing an assortment of lines churn out plans for the tynie houses in factories blurring the mechanical

press with the motion of repetition. everyone gets the same box. i crave to overpower the structure,

to wear it rather than the house always wearing me. or is the house always eating me? Some

sweet pettieFour-pettiCoat shifting from spleen to stomach covered in an acid shawl.

Some Queen, (a British one of course) has a doll house.

there is a Christmas ornament of it. a silent movie star no longer craving a close up has one too. how morose her

granddaughter Sarah rothe looks! how knee bent a faded ballerina stocking, slouching the leg warmers. more

show piece than toy. i want to dominate the chateau smash it with fists and kicks rather than crawl about its guts.

tynie furniture looking so grim.

it has a cutaway a glass peep hole like the cows with holes to their tummies or an anatomy model. this is when it was a baby house.

here is a house of wax with lungs. like doll houses, reliquaries are tynie homes because dreams are a home, in heaven there is

a home of splendor. tombs can be shaped like homes with garland and birds and cult tools. keep photoCopYinG the plans.

this one builds a decrepit tudor with a black spot smear- a doll house over taken by tynie doll vandals complete with dust and

rattle cans. this is naught but dirt and webby streamers but it used to be part of a music machine. it used to sit upon a wrought iron

foot treadle base of a singer sewing machine. the wall was graced with a record that played by a conic piece of paper and a pearl

caped pin when pumping the platform. i could do it in high heels. the notes were fed to a vase in the attic, the roof was ripped off.

all gold and black and red.

this cut way; this disaster tornado presentation is not always the way it is done. Some hinge like snake jaws

and there is double the space and double the shingles. these homes are secrets, and can be locked tight.

how lovely they key to such a space would look! Can the house get smaller? ask theodore the

president of Bliss manufacturing Company. does common sense degrade with each iteration?

i used to go to a. C. moore, a craft store, to look at the doll houSeS. a representation of each: Queen anne, light

house, Cottage, Second empire, Stick, Shingle, and richardsonian romanesque. they taunted me from the very top

shelf defying my dominance once again with paStel anarChY (pale pale green pale pale pink pale pale blue)

i wanted to live inside of them in the store and eat silk flowers with glass beads.

they would make fine homes for hamsters and snakes wearing dreSSeS.

it has a cutaway a glass peep hole like the cows with holes to their tummies or an anatomy model. this is when it was a baby house.

here is a house of wax with lungs. like doll houses, reliquaries are tynie homes because dreams are a home, in heaven there is

a home of splendor. tombs can be shaped like homes with garland and birds and cult tools. keep photoCopYinG the plans.

this one builds a decrepit tudor with a black spot smear- a doll house over taken by tynie doll vandals complete with dust and

rattle cans. this is naught but dirt and webby streamers but it used to be part of a music machine. it used to sit upon a wrought iron

foot treadle base of a singer sewing machine. the wall was graced with a record that played by a conic piece of paper and a pearl

caped pin when pumping the platform. i could do it in high heels. the notes were fed to a vase in the attic, the roof was ripped off.

all gold and black and red.

this cut way; this disaster tornado presentation is not always the way it is done. Some hinge like snake jaws

and there is double the space and double the shingles. these homes are secrets, and can be locked tight.

how lovely they key to such a space would look! Can the house get smaller? ask theodore the

president of Bliss manufacturing Company. does common sense degrade with each iteration?

i used to go to a. C. moore, a craft store, to look at the doll houSeS. a representation of each: Queen anne, light

house, Cottage, Second empire, Stick, Shingle, and richardsonian romanesque. they taunted me from the very top

shelf defying my dominance once again with paStel anarChY (pale pale green pale pale pink pale pale blue)

i wanted to live inside of them in the store and eat silk flowers with glass beads.

they would make fine homes for hamsters and snakes wearing dreSSeS.

thrilled thump thumped my heart at this excitement. i loved this.

in side all houses there are perfect shapes of houses and perfect

shapes of bookcases thanks to rachel Whiteread.

thrilled thump thumped my heart at this excitement. i loved this.

in side all houses there are perfect shapes of houses and perfect

shapes of bookcases thanks to rachel Whiteread.

killed pummeled ventricle at this passion like rectangles of homes like

wax illness molded by eleanor Crook.

killed pummeled ventricle at this passion like rectangles of homes like

wax illness molded by eleanor Crook.

Wept mush vein at this fear like boxes of castles like marble gables

of roman sarcophagi of dokimeion.

Wept mush vein at this fear like boxes of castles like marble gables

of roman sarcophagi of dokimeion.

moaning red porridge like the boredom of a basement apartment.

past glory but, still making its best work, like duchamp the chess king.

moaning red porridge like the boredom of a basement apartment.

past glory but, still making its best work, like duchamp the chess king.

T h r e s h o l d : p u b l i c p r i v a t e i n t e r n a l

T h r e s h o l d : p u b l i c p r i v a t e i n t e r n a l

my deSire is to chart or map or sculpt or SCript public versus private

Space for the nun’s called rich Claras of the cloistered convent in Ghent.

Soft space cold space, pastels and low intensity tertiaries. Bloomer, moore and Yudell: this

celebration and american identity of the single family home smiling to the street lights

and poohing out the back yard, this yard a bubble of personal protection, the body

with a hearth heart has little bodies inside, ornamenting the liver with objects of identity.

this is not the case

What happens with the super duper me becomes an us what of the internal wandering of

time and movement have an outer orchestration? With considerations to the internal space/

architecture of the mind and body, including the walls clothing such as the wimple and habit.

tucked under a chin hair falling out from taunt yellow pulling’s floating in darkness with wooden ball tethers.

looming blues hovering synthesizing wavelengths in a cold brown corridor.

Stone walls dug up in the wood and placed in teetotering alignments of orange grey on blue grey a

merging! the wall is the heaven, the line of internal division as it would sometimes be nothing more

than a fairy ring of daffy down dilly’s or waste high lumber that sweet almonds could trade for coin.

i am uncomfortable the straight lines that are the tradition of graphing; i feel they recede very human

embodiment and movement into abstract, cold data. i respect their use to communicate on a broad clear

my deSire is to chart or map or sculpt or SCript public versus private

Space for the nun’s called rich Claras of the cloistered convent in Ghent.

Soft space cold space, pastels and low intensity tertiaries. Bloomer, moore and Yudell: this

celebration and american identity of the single family home smiling to the street lights

and poohing out the back yard, this yard a bubble of personal protection, the body

with a hearth heart has little bodies inside, ornamenting the liver with objects of identity.

this is not the case

What happens with the super duper me becomes an us what of the internal wandering of

time and movement have an outer orchestration? With considerations to the internal space/

architecture of the mind and body, including the walls clothing such as the wimple and habit.

tucked under a chin hair falling out from taunt yellow pulling’s floating in darkness with wooden ball tethers.

looming blues hovering synthesizing wavelengths in a cold brown corridor.

Stone walls dug up in the wood and placed in teetotering alignments of orange grey on blue grey a

merging! the wall is the heaven, the line of internal division as it would sometimes be nothing more

than a fairy ring of daffy down dilly’s or waste high lumber that sweet almonds could trade for coin.

i am uncomfortable the straight lines that are the tradition of graphing; i feel they recede very human

embodiment and movement into abstract, cold data. i respect their use to communicate on a broad clear

neon level, but these colors order and i want my research to ponder. i can’t force myself to make them.

Because my organic lines, breaking through walls were not understood, i have chosen white

space around my rooms. the white space is conducive to impossible nonlinear movement.

Blue is public with all its calm, quite associations, red is private with its anger, passion and sin, and border spaces are purple,

their strange offspring. too often, red overly blue, red and blue occur simultaneously and as the facts declare, this situation is

not an offspring purple, but a dual coloration or in extremity complete conversion to blue. Blue gobbles up everything.

“the ebbs and flows, weights, rhythms, and surges that emanate from us are inherent

in the body and its movements. try to walk in precise and even measures” -Bloomer

the ConVent While a home doeS not eQual the priVate SpaCe oF a FamilY home.

it iS at all timeS a puBliC SpaCe oF itS Small eCoSYStem

i conclude that “private space” was not a space that held sparkles or charm or desirability in that joining the

order was a rejection self-space and a celebration and an embrace of a hive space. the queen would sit on a

elevated bed peering out on snoring feet, one eye always searching hanky panky. a ritual SlauGhter and

reBirth, a dedication a murder as marriages are as George elliot’s rosamonde points out. all wedded to God.

there once was a space for mothers, friends and peddlers, space created though personal relationships,

but this is a GreedY jealouS huSBand and the other ties are forfeited for this relationship with

neon level, but these colors order and i want my research to ponder. i can’t force myself to make them.

Because my organic lines, breaking through walls were not understood, i have chosen white

space around my rooms. the white space is conducive to impossible nonlinear movement.

Blue is public with all its calm, quite associations, red is private with its anger, passion and sin, and border spaces are purple,

their strange offspring. too often, red overly blue, red and blue occur simultaneously and as the facts declare, this situation is

not an offspring purple, but a dual coloration or in extremity complete conversion to blue. Blue gobbles up everything.

“the ebbs and flows, weights, rhythms, and surges that emanate from us are inherent

in the body and its movements. try to walk in precise and even measures” -Bloomer

the ConVent While a home doeS not eQual the priVate SpaCe oF a FamilY home.

it iS at all timeS a puBliC SpaCe oF itS Small eCoSYStem

i conclude that “private space” was not a space that held sparkles or charm or desirability in that joining the

order was a rejection self-space and a celebration and an embrace of a hive space. the queen would sit on a

elevated bed peering out on snoring feet, one eye always searching hanky panky. a ritual SlauGhter and

reBirth, a dedication a murder as marriages are as George elliot’s rosamonde points out. all wedded to God.

there once was a space for mothers, friends and peddlers, space created though personal relationships,

but this is a GreedY jealouS huSBand and the other ties are forfeited for this relationship with

space created though personal relationships, but this is a greedy jealous husband and the other ties are forfeited

for this relationship with God as illustrated by the vows of silence, renunciation of possessions. the ticker is of

course it was no papal bull decrying purge thy possessions but a loving willing thrilling desire of the Clariaties.

even perfect loved cages touch the outside and speak. locutorium For visitors interactions with

nun outsider escorted by portress. nun behind iron plate or panel with small holes covered by

black cloth only voices, no vision of bodies. murmuring metal iron veil, and the prime of miss

Brodie jean- assassin! the veil has an arm, a turning circular arm in steels hovering churchurchet a

freedom to the black and small un-apostate gifts could be exchanged.

tiny bundles of virgin blue and Christ blond.

dare to say indeed: private space was un-desirable to the Sisters. private space a clash a mixing a bad

vibration in teal and tangerine. abhor. the dangerous deserts and indulgent desserts -because there are

two s’s, and two s’s make the suppice- all alone owning anything even a stamp of a pasture of inner meads.

private space was a punishment.

to break the rules of the group identity was to be expelled from it in lonely private isolation. Sent to the bad room the

misericord, the bad sound of me alone without any supper, and moving about like the bad sisters architecture did not exist like

so many castles in the sky. internal space could would be impressed by rules of doing and Violation, and reciprocations.

space created though personal relationships, but this is a greedy jealous husband and the other ties are forfeited

for this relationship with God as illustrated by the vows of silence, renunciation of possessions. the ticker is of

course it was no papal bull decrying purge thy possessions but a loving willing thrilling desire of the Clariaties.

even perfect loved cages touch the outside and speak. locutorium For visitors interactions with

nun outsider escorted by portress. nun behind iron plate or panel with small holes covered by

black cloth only voices, no vision of bodies. murmuring metal iron veil, and the prime of miss

Brodie jean- assassin! the veil has an arm, a turning circular arm in steels hovering churchurchet a

freedom to the black and small un-apostate gifts could be exchanged.

tiny bundles of virgin blue and Christ blond.

dare to say indeed: private space was un-desirable to the Sisters. private space a clash a mixing a bad

vibration in teal and tangerine. abhor. the dangerous deserts and indulgent desserts -because there are

two s’s, and two s’s make the suppice- all alone owning anything even a stamp of a pasture of inner meads.

private space was a punishment.

to break the rules of the group identity was to be expelled from it in lonely private isolation. Sent to the bad room the

misericord, the bad sound of me alone without any supper, and moving about like the bad sisters architecture did not exist like

so many castles in the sky. internal space could would be impressed by rules of doing and Violation, and reciprocations.

trinkets and readings only of the loud.

the loud is the only only and held lounges dictated the day.

public Space Blue

lavatory infirmary

Cellarium

dorter refectory Chapter-house

Cloister Granary kitchen

lavatorium

Garth Scriptorium Chapel

Space for communication/ Contact with outside world purple

p a r l o r

infirmary

private Space red

d o r m i t o r y

trinkets and readings only of the loud.

the loud is the only only and held lounges dictated the day.

public Space Blue

lavatory infirmary

Cellarium

dorter refectory Chapter-house

Cloister Granary kitchen

lavatorium

Garth Scriptorium Chapel

Space for communication/ Contact with outside world purple

p a r l o r

infirmary

private Space red

d o r m i t o r y

miSeriCordi n t e r n a l

S p i r i t u a l

Bibliography: els de paermentier “experiencing Space through Women’s Convent

rules: the rich Clars in medieval Ghent (thirteenth to Fourteenth Centuries)”

lime green: wall, deFineS nun identity, and keeps them in / secular world out

neon orange: cloister and garth. protected by double doors and raising stairs

light blue: parlor.

(nun’s space and lay space, communication and exchange of gifts but no physical/ visual inter actions nun space colored in)

Yellow: refectory for communal meals silent space

red out line: Church, most likely most frequent space for male visitors (priests)

magenta blocks: dormitory with nuns cells. aBBeSS is purple star.

miSeriCordi n t e r n a l

S p i r i t u a l

Bibliography: els de paermentier “experiencing Space through Women’s Convent

rules: the rich Clars in medieval Ghent (thirteenth to Fourteenth Centuries)”

lime green: wall, deFineS nun identity, and keeps them in / secular world out

neon orange: cloister and garth. protected by double doors and raising stairs

light blue: parlor.

(nun’s space and lay space, communication and exchange of gifts but no physical/ visual inter actions nun space colored in)

Yellow: refectory for communal meals silent space

red out line: Church, most likely most frequent space for male visitors (priests)

magenta blocks: dormitory with nuns cells. aBBeSS is purple star.

an intervening Chapter

i have an infatuation with history, ritual, and folklore. these are more than blueprints to me.

But beams, mortar and windows of my arch(i)textural spaces. these are my shingles, my pieces of

Frankenstein’s monster, and my units of conversion. i lay out all of the bits i have obsessed over, all

the bits i have absorbed and stored as jewels of knowledge and regurgitate them in my own language.

Stacked not on top but in each other. at times this makes my dream book

about arch(i)texture a book of histories of architecture.

a play in thirteen acts and characters humming.

i am some sort of curator instead of fabricator- but isn’t every curator and installation artist?

my text is dense, a labyrinth, a crawlspace, but ancy performers must decipher bits of my code. it is a play, all text

text must be read aloud. and not in any left to right top to bottom order. (i have a sense of practicality and realism

and conclude a reader could be ostracized by my constructs. in cases where all narrative or meaning seems fleeting

i hope my chapters inhabit a space that the reader my neglect- a space of raw dreaming and intense imagination.)

i insist a reader become a performer by moving about that space with me.

my infatuation with the body becoming arCh(i)texture or fabricated space.

Somehow bound tightly with my adoration of clothing. in my first chapter- an ode to three of my

favorite buildings- Versailles, Faberge eggs and the insides of a dead FiSh. like dresses of the court.

i have an infatuation with history, ritual, and folklore. these are more than blueprints to me.

But beams, mortar and windows of my arch(i)textural spaces. these are my shingles, my pieces of

Frankenstein’s monster, and my units of conversion. i lay out all of the bits i have obsessed over, all

the bits i have absorbed and stored as jewels of knowledge and regurgitate them in my own language.

Stacked not on top but in each other. at times this makes my dream book

about arch(i)texture a book of histories of architecture.

a play in thirteen acts and characters humming.

i am some sort of curator instead of fabricator- but isn’t every curator and installation artist?

my text is dense, a labyrinth, a crawlspace, but ancy performers must decipher bits of my code. it is a play, all text

text must be read aloud. and not in any left to right top to bottom order. (i have a sense of practicality and realism

and conclude a reader could be ostracized by my constructs. in cases where all narrative or meaning seems fleeting

i hope my chapters inhabit a space that the reader my neglect- a space of raw dreaming and intense imagination.)

i insist a reader become a performer by moving about that space with me.

my infatuation with the body becoming arCh(i)texture or fabricated space.

Somehow bound tightly with my adoration of clothing. in my first chapter- an ode to three of my

favorite buildings- Versailles, Faberge eggs and the insides of a dead FiSh. like dresses of the court.

i love these things for their obscene decadence.

this also becomes an exercise of tranSlatinG the space, objects and buildings that surround

me with as my heart sees them. a process of removing familiarity and greeting each with mystery.

iindulgence into adoration: sex and ornamentation. i appreciate the co- habitation of

mutually exclusive concepts. the grotesques and the glamorous. perhaps this is just gaudiness

i am trying to pin down or photograph or trace or create a mold of the specifics of my love.

i often feel like an oracle at delphi- erupting what many would consider nonsense but

is CaSSandra truths to me. every phrase is an under phrase too, to express my view.

(washing calories with more than rain water) = a day dream of maids having to scrub pigeon droppings

off the pediments and friezes of a 19th century building, and empathizinG with their stiff starched

dress of black over what an awful job that would be. sympathizing as they would not have a tiny brush

like a tooth brush with tiny bristles to get in all the cracks and cusps of carved fruit, birds and ivy. (have

you ever researched the history of brooms or hairbrushes? it is fascinating, but i digress into tangent. )

this also betrays certain shames over my love of ornament.

decoration is a cream frosting i eat straight from the mixing bowl. With mY FinGerS. So, why not just write all of that?

i love these things for their obscene decadence.

this also becomes an exercise of tranSlatinG the space, objects and buildings that surround

me with as my heart sees them. a process of removing familiarity and greeting each with mystery.

iindulgence into adoration: sex and ornamentation. i appreciate the co- habitation of

mutually exclusive concepts. the grotesques and the glamorous. perhaps this is just gaudiness

i am trying to pin down or photograph or trace or create a mold of the specifics of my love.

i often feel like an oracle at delphi- erupting what many would consider nonsense but

is CaSSandra truths to me. every phrase is an under phrase too, to express my view.

(washing calories with more than rain water) = a day dream of maids having to scrub pigeon droppings

off the pediments and friezes of a 19th century building, and empathizinG with their stiff starched

dress of black over what an awful job that would be. sympathizing as they would not have a tiny brush

like a tooth brush with tiny bristles to get in all the cracks and cusps of carved fruit, birds and ivy. (have

you ever researched the history of brooms or hairbrushes? it is fascinating, but i digress into tangent. )

this also betrays certain shames over my love of ornament.

decoration is a cream frosting i eat straight from the mixing bowl. With mY FinGerS. So, why not just write all of that?

CuriouS aBout miniatureS and multipliCitY?

how i adore the feeling of a tinY house! this photocopying is nothing but cheap imitation and replica,

as it is based history and art. i am passionate about sharing my love, sharing the structures that bring

me wonder and joy and that pops up here as references to people, businesses and famous doll houses.

personality is often a question, and celebrating suffering as strength and determination. i am

quite found of research, but not of cold academics. i learn in emotion, description and metaphor.

perhaps because of the depth, attention and volume i give every impression, i flatten the viewing

field, thus once again celebrating my love of opposites. i want so horriBlY for everything to be art.

is this play, these communications art, mr. hardy?

“art is a disproportioning of realities, to show more clearly the features that matter in

those realities, which, if merely copied or reported inventorially, might possibly be observed,

but which would more probably be overlooked.

hence ‘realism is not art.’” thomas hardy, journal (1890), life, i. 228-9

even realist know realism isn’t really real.

CuriouS aBout miniatureS and multipliCitY?

how i adore the feeling of a tinY house! this photocopying is nothing but cheap imitation and replica,

as it is based history and art. i am passionate about sharing my love, sharing the structures that bring

me wonder and joy and that pops up here as references to people, businesses and famous doll houses.

personality is often a question, and celebrating suffering as strength and determination. i am

quite found of research, but not of cold academics. i learn in emotion, description and metaphor.

perhaps because of the depth, attention and volume i give every impression, i flatten the viewing

field, thus once again celebrating my love of opposites. i want so horriBlY for everything to be art.

is this play, these communications art, mr. hardy?

“art is a disproportioning of realities, to show more clearly the features that matter in

those realities, which, if merely copied or reported inventorially, might possibly be observed,

but which would more probably be overlooked.

hence ‘realism is not art.’” thomas hardy, journal (1890), life, i. 228-9

even realist know realism isn’t really real.

and there is a Grid: Children’s Games: translations

and there is a Grid: Children’s Games: translations

Mother and Death

one-three players

Frame: the small beloved rats wondered in far from the mother and she calls them at the home for soft meal to her nipple

of going moldy. really watch out not enough death of rat waits with patience in every step and you can just think you are

embraced the lethal stump.

Methods for game: the Player, who has suicide attempt last time, carry a cord of Burgundy, or spat in the mirror goes

first today. The remaining players make alternately in the clock against sage. Player’s roles the dice and movements

chose the rat. If the rat lands on a space with the holy locket that I am afraid that it is the time to go to the sky. Move the

piece disconcert in death and smash consequently. The player to smash all his rats first, or have the most part of the rats

nursing the dear mother at the end of game is the champion.

recommended for the children.

Mother and Death

one-three players

Frame: the small beloved rats wondered in far from the mother and she calls them at the home for soft meal to her nipple

of going moldy. really watch out not enough death of rat waits with patience in every step and you can just think you are

embraced the lethal stump.

Methods for game: the Player, who has suicide attempt last time, carry a cord of Burgundy, or spat in the mirror goes

first today. The remaining players make alternately in the clock against sage. Player’s roles the dice and movements

chose the rat. If the rat lands on a space with the holy locket that I am afraid that it is the time to go to the sky. Move the

piece disconcert in death and smash consequently. The player to smash all his rats first, or have the most part of the rats

nursing the dear mother at the end of game is the champion.

recommended for the children.

Death of Mother

and players

Installation: Milla rats wondered away from mother, and she calls them home sweet flour in its fusty nipples. Beware of

death in young rat patiently waiting at every turn, you may just find yourself kissing the death stump.

Methods of play: The player who recently tried to commit suicide, has burgundy ribbon or spit in the mirror today comes

first. Other players take turns in fighting clockwise. Player role of bone and moves picked rats. If the rat lands on a

space with a medallion of St. than I am afraid that it’s time to go to heaven. removal of the stump to death and defeat,

respectively. The player to break it all rats first, or the most expensive milk mother rats at the end of the game is the

champion.

recommended for children.

Death of Mother

and players

Installation: Milla rats wondered away from mother, and she calls them home sweet flour in its fusty nipples. Beware of

death in young rat patiently waiting at every turn, you may just find yourself kissing the death stump.

Methods of play: The player who recently tried to commit suicide, has burgundy ribbon or spit in the mirror today comes

first. Other players take turns in fighting clockwise. Player role of bone and moves picked rats. If the rat lands on a

space with a medallion of St. than I am afraid that it’s time to go to heaven. removal of the stump to death and defeat,

respectively. The player to break it all rats first, or the most expensive milk mother rats at the end of the game is the

champion.

recommended for children.

Mother and Death

one to three players

Setting: the darling little rats have wondered to far from mother, and she calls them home for sweet meal at her musty

teat. Do beware little rat death is patiently waiting at every step and you may just find yourself kissing the death stump.

Methods of play: Player, who has most recently attempted suicide, or is wearing a burgundy ribbon, or spat in the mirror

today goes first. remaining players take turns in counter clock wise. Player roles the dice and moves selected rat. If rat

lands on a space with saint medallion than I’m afraid it is time to go to heaven. remove piece to death stump and smash

accordingly. The player to smash all of her rats first, or have the most rats suckling dear mother at the end of play is the

champion.

recommended for children.

Mother and Death

one to three players

Setting: the darling little rats have wondered to far from mother, and she calls them home for sweet meal at her musty

teat. Do beware little rat death is patiently waiting at every step and you may just find yourself kissing the death stump.

Methods of play: Player, who has most recently attempted suicide, or is wearing a burgundy ribbon, or spat in the mirror

today goes first. remaining players take turns in counter clock wise. Player roles the dice and moves selected rat. If rat

lands on a space with saint medallion than I’m afraid it is time to go to heaven. remove piece to death stump and smash

accordingly. The player to smash all of her rats first, or have the most rats suckling dear mother at the end of play is the

champion.

recommended for children.

The Mother and Death

one-three players

regulating: the beloved child not much to the rat asked in a lot the mother, and she calls at home for meal sweetened in

his gone moldy trayon. To pay attention not much dead rat is patiently at every stage and that you just have find yourself

embrace death trunk.

Methods to play: Player, who newly tried to commit suicide, carries a Burgundy cordon, or spat out in the mirror today

the first one goes. Other players take towers in the conflict against wise clock. Player roles dices and blows chosen rat. If

rat lands on a space with holy locket that I aim fright that it is time to go to the sky. Withdraw room with death trunk and

break down consequently. The player to break down every his to the rat first, or new-born baby dear mother has the most

part of the rats to play it is the champion.

recommended for the children.

The Mother and Death

one-three players

regulating: the beloved child not much to the rat asked in a lot the mother, and she calls at home for meal sweetened in

his gone moldy trayon. To pay attention not much dead rat is patiently at every stage and that you just have find yourself

embrace death trunk.

Methods to play: Player, who newly tried to commit suicide, carries a Burgundy cordon, or spat out in the mirror today

the first one goes. Other players take towers in the conflict against wise clock. Player roles dices and blows chosen rat. If

rat lands on a space with holy locket that I aim fright that it is time to go to the sky. Withdraw room with death trunk and

break down consequently. The player to break down every his to the rat first, or new-born baby dear mother has the most

part of the rats to play it is the champion.

recommended for the children.

of the rib Cage, Frame, and incorruptible Corpse

is the body a tent?

Skin the thick stripped canvas. indeed this practice is practiced in places far in time and dirt with urns and

threading. empired of all contents lungs lit on fire. the tent even gets embroidery of magical beasts most often the

ghost man with the grapes and wings. these things also appear upon the bridles for horses, showing off a tendency

for man to be a beast. Skin the thick stripped canvas, the tanned leather breathing leather unprocessed leather

stretched over bones; bones become the poles to pitch the space the picture frame that wraps a new fluffy persona.

an empty nests that flows like crispy.

turning mettle to a curve bones hugging round to cradle guts and lungs and hearts resting upon a livery.

kicking snorting stomping beasts once again.

if our dwellings are made of steel ghosts every room becomes a secret cage and the skin no longer a tent becomes plumage of a

long and foolish kind. dear FaBriCation “beneath the translucent veil of scaffolding is another draft taking shape/ being

forged into a final copy” there is an amusement museum that suspends the ribcages of whales form its ball room. people dance

beneath them, and eat soup and once i stumbled upon an eighty year olds birthday looking for a fashion show. the ventilation

has an expired creature blocking breaths up. it miGht explode. it is also very tired. Birds live in rib cages; the heart is

a bird like thing. Small locust of ache and itch bubble and creep. even the primary ventilation system is prone to SuFFer.

is the body a tent?

Skin the thick stripped canvas. indeed this practice is practiced in places far in time and dirt with urns and

threading. empired of all contents lungs lit on fire. the tent even gets embroidery of magical beasts most often the

ghost man with the grapes and wings. these things also appear upon the bridles for horses, showing off a tendency

for man to be a beast. Skin the thick stripped canvas, the tanned leather breathing leather unprocessed leather

stretched over bones; bones become the poles to pitch the space the picture frame that wraps a new fluffy persona.

an empty nests that flows like crispy.

turning mettle to a curve bones hugging round to cradle guts and lungs and hearts resting upon a livery.

kicking snorting stomping beasts once again.

if our dwellings are made of steel ghosts every room becomes a secret cage and the skin no longer a tent becomes plumage of a

long and foolish kind. dear FaBriCation “beneath the translucent veil of scaffolding is another draft taking shape/ being

forged into a final copy” there is an amusement museum that suspends the ribcages of whales form its ball room. people dance

beneath them, and eat soup and once i stumbled upon an eighty year olds birthday looking for a fashion show. the ventilation

has an expired creature blocking breaths up. it miGht explode. it is also very tired. Birds live in rib cages; the heart is

a bird like thing. Small locust of ache and itch bubble and creep. even the primary ventilation system is prone to SuFFer.

You’re lucky elro is only building lego cemeteries. i used to follow the barn cats around and snatch their kill,

and bury them wrapped in lace and fabric and coffins i cut out from pantry food boxes to perfectly fit their little

bodies. then i would bury them and build tomb stones. By stones i mean sticks tied together with dental floss

or long sharp grass – the blades too long to make a whistle so they had to be ripped before that pyramid wreaked

the wood. i had mostly forgotten this practice until i saw your post, but your post was like a time machine and

right now i can tactilely remember everything. When my snake died two years ago, this is exactly what i did to

his body, with the wrapping and cereal box coffin, and even then did not make the connection to childhood.

You’re lucky elro is only building lego cemeteries. i used to follow the barn cats around and snatch their kill,

and bury them wrapped in lace and fabric and coffins i cut out from pantry food boxes to perfectly fit their little

bodies. then i would bury them and build tomb stones. By stones i mean sticks tied together with dental floss

or long sharp grass – the blades too long to make a whistle so they had to be ripped before that pyramid wreaked

the wood. i had mostly forgotten this practice until i saw your post, but your post was like a time machine and

right now i can tactilely remember everything. When my snake died two years ago, this is exactly what i did to

his body, with the wrapping and cereal box coffin, and even then did not make the connection to childhood.

The romantic mope of a graveyard.

The cellars of the dead with rust smears and pointy liths.

repeat ion and variation a poem in greys and greens and guh-browns. in one line of thought the roots do not

match the stem, the basement in not attached to the attic. more like a fungus, with miles of hidden lyceum, only

getting rash with a blossoming sex organ. under that ground, tiny architecture perfectly body sized. ipswich

has a grave yard with a slabby granite staircase built into a hill. to mount it is to move about a hierarchy of time.

Wood to cement.

most architecture will fall away, but on occasion one stands marble and upright coliseums for centuries,

sitting pretty and all that is needed is the metalwork nose. Cakes of hate draped in crepe and birthday

candles tapers. it just will not rot. opening vaults with slow pressure and there he sits upright.

Wax instead of flesh.

The romantic mope of a graveyard.

The cellars of the dead with rust smears and pointy liths.

repeat ion and variation a poem in greys and greens and guh-browns. in one line of thought the roots do not

match the stem, the basement in not attached to the attic. more like a fungus, with miles of hidden lyceum, only

getting rash with a blossoming sex organ. under that ground, tiny architecture perfectly body sized. ipswich

has a grave yard with a slabby granite staircase built into a hill. to mount it is to move about a hierarchy of time.

Wood to cement.

most architecture will fall away, but on occasion one stands marble and upright coliseums for centuries,

sitting pretty and all that is needed is the metalwork nose. Cakes of hate draped in crepe and birthday

candles tapers. it just will not rot. opening vaults with slow pressure and there he sits upright.

Wax instead of flesh.

corruptible space

corruptible space

mignonette

8 reviews rating details

Category: linegerie [edit]

301 Wickenden St

providence, ri 02903

neighborhood: Fox point

memory and violent nostalgia. a brained space comes and goes. memory and violet nostalgia.

mignonette’s is gone. the flesh is stripped.

the bones are not pure; they lose all familiarity in this case. Where did the purple lilac heaven of a certain kind of

femininity go? the last look there i was there was with a beau. Years away, hot summer. he was purchasing line-gerie for

his girl friend. he was afraid he had knocked her up. i sampled fern and leather perfume and purchased a book on Balthus.

me through the door just as he was purchasing we had agreed to meet.

the counter girl was a column of the establishment, beautiful lacquer. i liked reading her eyes a generous bird with feathers

and eggs to share, but precious. She thought the garments were for me and tried to hide them. explaining that she did not

have to was painful like pimples on the liver. he delighted in this cruelty, always parading “womanly” gifts for the other her

:trinkets poems, books he saw in my library. it was charming in a way, a lovey torcher of being a fuckable comrade but not a

pet. he never gave me anything but art supplies, powdered charcoal, advice, books on judy Chicago that i forgot to return.

i wish i could now forget to return, and the same time mourn this lost purple

body. he would not give me the copy of Salome. a teasing want, a lovely ceiling.

i loved this place this pungent cave and glass parade. the bags white trapezoids- the trapezoid an unquiet shape- black

lines and black mask with black silk handles. With mignonette’s gone all i have is the j C pennies in Wareham, with the

purple curtains and lavender stripes and gold trimmed mirrors, hidden in the bra section, hidden in middle class newness.

memory and violent nostalgia. a brained space comes and goes. memory and violet nostalgia.

mignonette’s is gone. the flesh is stripped.

the bones are not pure; they lose all familiarity in this case. Where did the purple lilac heaven of a certain kind of

femininity go? the last look there i was there was with a beau. Years away, hot summer. he was purchasing line-gerie for

his girl friend. he was afraid he had knocked her up. i sampled fern and leather perfume and purchased a book on Balthus.

me through the door just as he was purchasing we had agreed to meet.

the counter girl was a column of the establishment, beautiful lacquer. i liked reading her eyes a generous bird with feathers

and eggs to share, but precious. She thought the garments were for me and tried to hide them. explaining that she did not

have to was painful like pimples on the liver. he delighted in this cruelty, always parading “womanly” gifts for the other her

:trinkets poems, books he saw in my library. it was charming in a way, a lovey torcher of being a fuckable comrade but not a

pet. he never gave me anything but art supplies, powdered charcoal, advice, books on judy Chicago that i forgot to return.

i wish i could now forget to return, and the same time mourn this lost purple

body. he would not give me the copy of Salome. a teasing want, a lovely ceiling.

i loved this place this pungent cave and glass parade. the bags white trapezoids- the trapezoid an unquiet shape- black

lines and black mask with black silk handles. With mignonette’s gone all i have is the j C pennies in Wareham, with the

purple curtains and lavender stripes and gold trimmed mirrors, hidden in the bra section, hidden in middle class newness.

Spaces are always changing. What was and is my MIgnOnETTE is no one elses.

Spaces are always changing. What was and is my MIgnOnETTE is no one elses.

elite ‘13

• 63friends

• 236reviews

• MarlenaV.

Woonsocket, ri

6/9/2009

if you enjoy looking and smelling like a trashy cabaret chick then this little ditty has a real treat in store for you. Complete with self-deluded, would-be euro extraordinaire, you too

can enjoy the sexy allure of a mind crushingly, painful headache. Feed your senses with tacky costume jewelry, overpriced candles and pointless knickknacks.

no.

i was tempted to stop in on a whim, immediately attracted by its outside decor.. which left me immediately regretting my compulsive behavior. Cute to look at for three minutes,

butridiculouslyoverpricedandtheownerisabsolutely,101%rude.Whenaskingherasimplequestionabouttheperfume,sheeyedmedownlikeapieceoftrashandgavemea

snarky, curt little answer. Why? Who knows. But with that nasty tude i certainly won’t be visiting again. ‘Scuse me for not wanting to dress like some reject 17th century cosplay

tard. Skip this one.

listed in: Worst of ze Worst

Was this review …?

• Useful(6)

• Funny(8)

• Cool(3)

elite ‘13

• 63friends

• 236reviews

• MarlenaV.

Woonsocket, ri

6/9/2009

if you enjoy looking and smelling like a trashy cabaret chick then this little ditty has a real treat in store for you. Complete with self-deluded, would-be euro extraordinaire, you too

can enjoy the sexy allure of a mind crushingly, painful headache. Feed your senses with tacky costume jewelry, overpriced candles and pointless knickknacks.

no.

i was tempted to stop in on a whim, immediately attracted by its outside decor.. which left me immediately regretting my compulsive behavior. Cute to look at for three minutes,

butridiculouslyoverpricedandtheownerisabsolutely,101%rude.Whenaskingherasimplequestionabouttheperfume,sheeyedmedownlikeapieceoftrashandgavemea

snarky, curt little answer. Why? Who knows. But with that nasty tude i certainly won’t be visiting again. ‘Scuse me for not wanting to dress like some reject 17th century cosplay

tard. Skip this one.

listed in: Worst of ze Worst

Was this review …?

• Useful(6)

• Funny(8)

• Cool(3)

•

elite ‘13

• 45friends

• 125reviews

• LyndsyC.

Cranston, ri

7/8/2009

i want to feel “special” and “sensual” when i walk into this overpriced hole in the wall, but somehow the owner is such a nasty bitch, and

everything is so tacky...

Was this review …?

• Useful(6)

• Funny(4)

• Cool(1)

•

elite ‘13

• 45friends

• 125reviews

• LyndsyC.

Cranston, ri

7/8/2009

i want to feel “special” and “sensual” when i walk into this overpriced hole in the wall, but somehow the owner is such a nasty bitch, and

everything is so tacky...

Was this review …?

• Useful(6)

• Funny(4)

• Cool(1)

Chapter on Lines

Chapter on Lines

lines make total non-sen-sense weaving deeper than was expected multiple crossings embodiment of a

black or magenta slash

and the fill of

a black or viridian slash

and the leading of a black or marigold slash

there once a picture drawn of pauses and ina said that the lines where a brain mapping and that

the line maker was mad. there is something to this, jean duBuFFet curating the drawing of the

schizophrenics wobble threating lumps pillaging into shapes. these lines sit in front of corporate offices,

leering at ties, and one can only wonder if the ties have the faintest inclinations of the judgments origin.

in a house, like this house

this house you have been acting out, this house you have been preforming in for chapters and chapters

a house in an architecture that changes shape,

lives in veils and collage layers, walks around in a surrealist cap lines do not last of a long time.

upon each other writing across the earth the earth of course dissected like tea sandwiches with regards for x height and tracing.

lines make total non-sen-sense weaving deeper than was expected multiple crossings embodiment of a

black or magenta slash

and the fill of

a black or viridian slash

and the leading of a black or marigold slash

there once a picture drawn of pauses and ina said that the lines where a brain mapping and that

the line maker was mad. there is something to this, jean duBuFFet curating the drawing of the

schizophrenics wobble threating lumps pillaging into shapes. these lines sit in front of corporate offices,

leering at ties, and one can only wonder if the ties have the faintest inclinations of the judgments origin.

in a house, like this house

this house you have been acting out, this house you have been preforming in for chapters and chapters

a house in an architecture that changes shape,

lives in veils and collage layers, walks around in a surrealist cap lines do not last of a long time.

upon each other writing across the earth the earth of course dissected like tea sandwiches with regards for x height and tracing.

l (long thin boundary)

e (cusp with a crawl space)

t (cantilever intersection)

t (cantilever intersection)

e (cusp with a crawl space)

r (short thin boundary with an arch)

s (infinity cusps flowing down to the dirt)

l (long thin boundary)

e (cusp with a crawl space)

t (cantilever intersection)

t (cantilever intersection)

e (cusp with a crawl space)

r (short thin boundary with an arch)

s (infinity cusps flowing down to the dirt)

the liVer makes lines to all the other actors on stage.

they can be felt on lumpY CaBleS swirling about.

this stage is anywhere. Centers encountering other centers tethering tethering. this line of empathy at

attempts. to feel me to feel you. i can draw this space embodiment creates, but this is more time and movement

and notation for memory. everything is changing all the time. i do not think i am making garish

photographs, but then i also think my lines have some grace where my penmanship is an abomination.

Why are these every day lines that make symbols that i base so much reality upon naturally poor in slanting and slipping parades?

perhaps these movements these poems these notes are just snap shots at the end of it tall. oh gosh by Gosh, notation eh?

lines are architectures and lines share stories.

this text is what happens when architectures whimper scream and moan at each other across numbers and

dates. this architecture is what happens if all the built things hop on one place and one place only for a

spell, like they tend to do in my liver land. the liver is classically predominantly the brain and heart elect,

and sometimes it holds a world of fey with fey livestock. they are doing it right now, new foldy accordions parle with puffy

queen nans, mid-sixties restaurants and brick possible. this book is what happens whe i keep waling though spaces and

they keep changing unnatural environment twisting and erasing a parcel while sewing another on past the brick inlay

past the wood to grain. empathy for a fallen shack crispy umber burnt with green bottle’s bottom making too many eyes

without crisscrossing lashes a curling. inter wrist exploring the shape of a body through a swoon with a monster grid-

p o W

the liVer makes lines to all the other actors on stage.

they can be felt on lumpY CaBleS swirling about.

this stage is anywhere. Centers encountering other centers tethering tethering. this line of empathy at

attempts. to feel me to feel you. i can draw this space embodiment creates, but this is more time and movement

and notation for memory. everything is changing all the time. i do not think i am making garish

photographs, but then i also think my lines have some grace where my penmanship is an abomination.

Why are these every day lines that make symbols that i base so much reality upon naturally poor in slanting and slipping parades?

perhaps these movements these poems these notes are just snap shots at the end of it tall. oh gosh by Gosh, notation eh?

lines are architectures and lines share stories.

this text is what happens when architectures whimper scream and moan at each other across numbers and

dates. this architecture is what happens if all the built things hop on one place and one place only for a

spell, like they tend to do in my liver land. the liver is classically predominantly the brain and heart elect,

and sometimes it holds a world of fey with fey livestock. they are doing it right now, new foldy accordions parle with puffy

queen nans, mid-sixties restaurants and brick possible. this book is what happens whe i keep waling though spaces and

they keep changing unnatural environment twisting and erasing a parcel while sewing another on past the brick inlay

past the wood to grain. empathy for a fallen shack crispy umber burnt with green bottle’s bottom making too many eyes

without crisscrossing lashes a curling. inter wrist exploring the shape of a body through a swoon with a monster grid-

p o W

i have always disliked the question so what is new. there are always many threads because i am also an atropa. Sister

weaving and sister holding, who are you? i like holding the scissors about to cut- the scissors are always so pretty like

little birds or iron fences, minimized and contoured to my hand. oh, it would be nice to cut threads with wrought

iron fences. i rather must decide if i am going to use the boundary that bubbles a frosty painted lady or the kind

that keeps the riff raff out of well to do family rotting ground, the kind of threshold that calls out old names on

marble books in hilly quite loved ones. this phrase is the cue to cut all the lines in deer weeping light busting panic.

So what is new?

e m p a t h y

i have always disliked the question so what is new. there are always many threads because i am also an atropa. Sister

weaving and sister holding, who are you? i like holding the scissors about to cut- the scissors are always so pretty like

little birds or iron fences, minimized and contoured to my hand. oh, it would be nice to cut threads with wrought

iron fences. i rather must decide if i am going to use the boundary that bubbles a frosty painted lady or the kind

that keeps the riff raff out of well to do family rotting ground, the kind of threshold that calls out old names on

marble books in hilly quite loved ones. this phrase is the cue to cut all the lines in deer weeping light busting panic.

So what is new?

e m p a t h y

Façade: the labYrinth, the Surrealist house

The dream architecture book has a dream cover. First day of class Wednesday January 23, 2013 a bit after 3 pm. Maybe.

Cloth cloth covering with a visible weave that could be picked at with SeWinG needleS or bobby pins. Faded

in splotches red no maroon threadbare to yellow. it want to be leather bound, embossed typed with ridges on the

spine, fancy filigree stamp of architecture, but it is not. i don’t think it needs to be, but it does. it is heavy, the

covers weigh too much to be just economy card board but there is no way this is lead. Black map drawings of letters

that shine gold. it wants to be mahogany, marble and iron-WrouGht iron FenCinG. But it is not. i don’t

think it needs to be, but it does. the cloth is not soft it scratches too many people. too many people have picked

at it with needles, loops ripping, little hairs waving. it should perhaps Be VelVet. i will pretend it is a rusty low

insanity red, brown because it is toward gree, not the lavender of a flea, but delicious crushed VelVet. For its sake.

1) We Were so Grand in the Fish Gut Verse

2)AThirdDetentionofTextDoors

3) Words, Window dressings and teaful pediments

4)Dreams,DollHouses,replica,copycopycopy,scale

5)Ornament,eroticspace,Line,sacredspace,Shadow,crazyspace

6)VictorianImperialThieveryandHomagePavingtheRoadtoHell

7) massive tents of Betrothal and impermanent pillage

The dream architecture book has a dream cover. First day of class Wednesday January 23, 2013 a bit after 3 pm. Maybe.

Cloth cloth covering with a visible weave that could be picked at with SeWinG needleS or bobby pins. Faded

in splotches red no maroon threadbare to yellow. it want to be leather bound, embossed typed with ridges on the

spine, fancy filigree stamp of architecture, but it is not. i don’t think it needs to be, but it does. it is heavy, the

covers weigh too much to be just economy card board but there is no way this is lead. Black map drawings of letters

that shine gold. it wants to be mahogany, marble and iron-WrouGht iron FenCinG. But it is not. i don’t

think it needs to be, but it does. the cloth is not soft it scratches too many people. too many people have picked

at it with needles, loops ripping, little hairs waving. it should perhaps Be VelVet. i will pretend it is a rusty low

insanity red, brown because it is toward gree, not the lavender of a flea, but delicious crushed VelVet. For its sake.

1) We Were so Grand in the Fish Gut Verse

2)AThirdDetentionofTextDoors

3) Words, Window dressings and teaful pediments

4)Dreams,DollHouses,replica,copycopycopy,scale

5)Ornament,eroticspace,Line,sacredspace,Shadow,crazyspace

6)VictorianImperialThieveryandHomagePavingtheRoadtoHell

7) massive tents of Betrothal and impermanent pillage

2013