I Wish I Had Said Something
He’s just one guy, he won’t be around forever, and he’ll probably never run into a black person for the rest of his life. No harm, no foul, right?
He’s just one guy, he won’t be around forever, and he’ll probably never run into a black person for the rest of his life. No harm, no foul, right?
The repetitions of my life—days, stories, conversations, sounds, meals, images, kisses, hugs, dreams—are like interlocking houndsteeth, but somehow unbound by form, unbridled by geometry.
Cutting open a Bisquick bag will always smell of thin Duke University t-shirts, thoughtful eyebrows, and hour-long explanations of the electoral college.
These works are about as subtle as a trainwreck, but they are surprisingly fun, despite their depressingly urgent call to take environmental responsibility.
Grasp, carry, touch, step, tug, swallow.
There are also in-game currencies and prizes, but the real celebration is that “Chicken Dinner,” which, I cannot stress enough, bears no resemblance to any kind of meal.
We’re used to standing apart from the places we occupy, fillers and subduers of the earth that we are.
To believe in something other than what is materially in front of you is awkward. It likely means that what you expect tomorrow is impossible today.
But one day at work, I was proofing an email and realized I sounded really excited about a new art exhibition. Too excited.
Though I’ve never defined myself by a job title, I came to the realization that without my previous one, I had little to define myself with at all.