April 10, 2010
Fragments
of my past will be offered for sale to the public beginning tomorrow, April 11, at 3426 Dutton Drive, Dallas, Texas.
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comments:
- Joel Bernstein: I know right?
- Rick Neece: Being nice is a dainty way to put it.
- Rick Neece: Hey Cristopher? Who cried “uncle” first, at the end of your ten-year stand-off? To quote my...
- Michael Smith: Ours is the kitchen.
- Amy Mabli: That’s what happens when you give the dogs the bed.
- Deron Bauman: Sweet Jesus.
- Michael Smith: Don’t we all.
- Pam: I have a story coming out soon in a ‘little mag’, Chicago Quarterly Review. An old friend recently...
- Pam: And I thought, somedays, that my work was meaningless…
- Pam: I remember Eggleston at the Art Institute in Chicago a couple years ago. He was elegantly dressed in a dark suit...
- Christopher Walken: Hey Clusterflockers, Realize y’all are hurting. I’ve been a really close friend of my...
- Marco: This works pretty well in mobile, more so in iOS
- Michael Smith: It was not the intent of management to imply all sissies are “namby pamby”. Management was...
- Rick Neece: I take umbrage with the term “namby pamby.” Some sissies are fierce.
- Carole Corlew: Shelia. Happy no big deal day. I would start your very own post but this phone is in semi rebellion.
a la Butros?
You bet. Or rather, Bitros. (Not Butros. Nor Bustes.)
Come one, come all!
For all I know, you could buy an album of all my dance recital photographs for a quarter.
Or you could, you know, photograph people buying up fragments of my past. Or just hang out and observe the scene.
bitros bitros ghali.
Shimmy shimmy koko bop.
(He’s retired from the diplomatic racket, and he’s got a new lease on life now he’s handling north central Texas estate sales.)
(and inspiring drug slang).
at the very least, they can’t sell Bustes. or, Bustes is not for sale.
man.
Recycling the past and bringing it into the present is great. I have been rescuing the past from houses here. Things destined for landfill I clean, use and love.
Phil, that is a wonderful way of looking at it. I’ve been cool about the impending sale of the house (my childhood home), but at the eleventh hour I began to feel shaky thinking of its contents being dispersed. (And this from the woman who flung family Christmas ornaments into the primordial ooze of the dump!)
I feel much better now. Thank you.
(Cooper is in Dallas now, hanging out before his departure for Malta, and I hear that he and another longtime friend or two may stop by the house today to check out the scene!)
I’m reminded of when a friend shipped off his wonderful collection of puppets to be distributed among members of a new generation.
This reminds me, I have a bag of finger puppets that I am hoping to bring back from Copenhagen, next week.
“A bag of finger puppets” sounds wonderfully sinister, though I know it is not.
I have a bone I retrieved from The Shed near my house. Something out there wants it. But it is my bone.
Guard well your bag of finger puppets.
any word?
All quiet. At least on my end.
no sign of Bustes?
Renner and our friend Steve did a drive-by, and Steve just sent me a snapshot. I will examine it for evidence of Bustes.
Maybe if, you know, someone who shot film — like Phil, like maybe if Phil could have stopped by Dutton Drive again and, like, gotten him some hip shots with that little Holga he got — maybe it would be, like, spirit photography, like when the film was all developed and printed and all, you could see Ruben Bustes even though, like, he wasn’t even fucking there, man!
You felt that force field, didn’t you, man? Like, when we drove by his house that first time? The House of Ruben Bustes?
Man, that should be a movie, man.
Deron: no reports of hittin’ in the face. Not so far. I think the sale goes on tomorrow.
I have found a photo of my father seated under this very mirror, holding an infant me.
Oh to truly remember the holdings of an infant-me by one of my parents. What sort of mirror can do this? Perhaps Ricky and I should travel south. Such a yearning for that embrace.
Sheila
I’ve wanted to say something all day about this, I am wordless. Know that I hold you in my heart. I love this image.
Sheila, my mother sent me an 8mm reel of what possibly could be footage of a toddler me. I’m trying to figure out how — if — it can be viewed. The lost tapes.
Danny, I’m with you. To have such a thought/memory would be a treasure. My childhood is not terribly clear and being an infant, nothing. To have a memory of one of my parents holding me – well, it would sort a lot in my head.
Deron, you must try and get that onto DVD or something. I have never seen a moving picture of myself, but, I attended a wedding of an uncle in 1969 I think it was. I heard rumour a few years back that there was a movie taken on the day. My uncle is supposed to have a DVD copy of it now. I remember I had new shoes, they had a compass in the heel and animal paw prints on the sole. I also remember that thery hurt like hell all day.
Phil, fashionable shoes always hurt.
When Daryl and I were first together, his parents showed me old 8mm films of his childhood. The images have haunted me ever since. His parents thought the films lovely and nostalgic, but what I saw was toddler Daryl, often dressed in a stiff shirt and tie, repeatedly getting up or reaching for something, only to be briskly lifted and replaced into his proper spot. One’s desire to explore, countered by another’s desire to control.
I have a picture of baby me with a watermelon in my crib.
Rick you are so right, however, heels really tug at my calves.
but nicely elongate the leg.