Still in my rebellious rite-of-passage phase.

I anticipate always feeling as whimsical as I was when I chose this.

Thinking ahead deficient.

Quite willing to flirt with infections.

Personal names on my body are not necessarily indicative of my relationship with that person when you read this.

I regretted this one almost immediately.

It may be wrong to assume that I know what this symbol represents.

Future long-sleeve lover.

Actively taking a role in reducing the number of potential places that might employ me.

I HAD to be fairly inebriated to go with this one.

I went to see some real life art and real art life, then ate a steak, took a train, went to bed and thought about what I had done. I tried to believe that this wasn’t the desired outcome, that I hadn’t seen this coming, but I refused to allow myself even that comfort. I turned my computer on and wondered what I was becoming, what we all were becoming. I entered my virtual bed and said Honey, I’m home. I asked him to hold me and he did, caressing my virtual back while I rubbed my real life temples. Tell me you love me, I said. Tell me you’ll never leave me, that I’ll never be alone. Tell me we’re not monsters. Tell me I’m capable of loving someone. Tell me that I’m still human.
You are. His thoughts appeared. I love you. This is our life. This is our real life and I will love you forever.
He held me closer and I pushed the button that caused my avatar to cry. I pressed it again and again. Then again and again.

CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE ADOBE MUSEUM OF DIGITAL MEDIA.

See also previous post about “carrying on the Cunningham conspiracy”.

“Crippled to the death”, she said and started laughing so I started laughing and she lit a black cigar and we smoked it, smoking and smoking and smoking until there was nothing but white, or near-yellowish white, and I could see nothing except smoke and I was all so very glad to be out there, smoking and blind, past the tables and chairs and people flirting and couples fighting, and the bottles of tonic and the bottles of vodka and the olives. At that moment I realized truly I just missed my mother, a tiny bit, there in the smoke, feeling myself disappearing. I wished I could have seen her one last time; wished I could have been her all along, which is all I ever wanted somehow, as a girl, as a woman even, to be a mother and suddenly I thought back to it all and whispered, “So long, I’m off. I am always trying to imagine death, and I thought I would imagine better one day, but have not.”

Two poor Chinese opium smokers. Gouache painting on rice-paper, 19th century.

Two wealthy Chinese opium smokers. Gouache painting on rice-paper, 19th century.

Born Frédéric Gafner in Geneva in 1969 from parents in dance and photography, Foofwa d’Imobilité studied at the Ecole de Danse de Genève and was a member of the Geneva-based Ballet Junior. He danced professionally with the Stuttgart Ballet in Germany (1987-1990) and with the Merce Cunningham Dance Company, in New-York (1991-1998).
Foofwa has performed as a dancer around the world, notably at the Paris Opera, the Fenice Theater in Venice, Italy, and at the Brooklyn Academy of Music in New York. His work has been presented by The Kitchen, Chez Bushwick and the Baryshnikov Arts Center in New York, the Maison de la Danse and the Biennale de la danse in Lyon, France, and over 40 other cities in Europe.

1996 interview, here.

Two Soups and a Honeybun is the debut exhibition from acclaimed visual and music artist Kutmah, a solo show of drawings completed in 2010 whilst detained in a United States prison. Opens at the new 18 Hewett Street project space tomorrow night.

In one of the diplomatic cables released by WikiLeaks Putin and Medvedev are compared to Batman and Robin.
It’s a useful analogy: isn’t Julian Assange, WikiLeaks’s organiser, a real-life counterpart to the Joker in Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight? In the film, the district attorney, Harvey Dent, an obsessive vigilante who is corrupted and himself commits murders, is killed by Batman. Batman and his friend police commissioner Gordon realise that the city’s morale would suffer if Dent’s murders were made public, so plot to preserve his image by holding Batman responsible for the killings. The film’s take-home message is that lying is necessary to sustain public morale: only a lie can redeem us. No wonder the only figure of truth in the film is the Joker, its supreme villain. He makes it clear that his attacks on Gotham City will stop when Batman takes off his mask and reveals his true identity; to prevent this disclosure and protect Batman, Dent tells the press that he is Batman – another lie. In order to entrap the Joker, Gordon fakes his own death – yet another lie.

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