Thursday, December 27, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
Friday, December 14, 2007
Six months.
So. Finished my thesis, traveled for a couple months, bought a truck, went to live in the crazy cartoon world that is Elsewhere, made a film while editing in an unheated building over Thanksgiving with gloves on, came to New York City. Now I'm looking for employment and housing, and probably will continue looking until I leave.
Yesterday I got paid 70 dollars to play dance dance revolution under interrogated surveillance and listened to a kid most of the way back to where my things live tell me about how he's made over six thousand dollars from doing focus groups; he relates the time that military recruiters came over, bought him pizza, gave him and two friends 900 dollars and an iPod nano, and left the videotape of their conversation on their coffee table. Also of note is that I have also submitted my resume to the Museum of Sex; as their advertisement sluttishly declares, "Applications are currently being accepted for Operations Assistant positions."
Tonight I am going to the Flux Factory in Long Island City to see the work of 80 artists who have made little versions of the big sculpture that is this town. I used to have dreams of New York after my first visit here when I was thirteen years old of endless architecture passing by without ceasing, just one long liminality between alleys and boardwalks and tops of buildings, with stairwells and fire escapes giving way to windowsills and balconies and endless stamped tin facades, white gloppy paint on minimum wage masonry spilling over on to 1970's plaster etc etc etc. And so moving here feels like a myth come to life; and what better medium for dreams than architecture, all those rooms in which so many things have happened.
There is a sense emergent recently of the rhythm of my dance from sunrise to set, bed to bed, being outside of my control. It's dictated by a delicate yet somehow inevitable interplay of doors, walls, floors, job sites, habit, wine, new friends, trains. And the energy that comes out of that beat; not one beat, but a city, a heterotopia, an endless parade of difference harmonizing.
Yesterday I got paid 70 dollars to play dance dance revolution under interrogated surveillance and listened to a kid most of the way back to where my things live tell me about how he's made over six thousand dollars from doing focus groups; he relates the time that military recruiters came over, bought him pizza, gave him and two friends 900 dollars and an iPod nano, and left the videotape of their conversation on their coffee table. Also of note is that I have also submitted my resume to the Museum of Sex; as their advertisement sluttishly declares, "Applications are currently being accepted for Operations Assistant positions."
Tonight I am going to the Flux Factory in Long Island City to see the work of 80 artists who have made little versions of the big sculpture that is this town. I used to have dreams of New York after my first visit here when I was thirteen years old of endless architecture passing by without ceasing, just one long liminality between alleys and boardwalks and tops of buildings, with stairwells and fire escapes giving way to windowsills and balconies and endless stamped tin facades, white gloppy paint on minimum wage masonry spilling over on to 1970's plaster etc etc etc. And so moving here feels like a myth come to life; and what better medium for dreams than architecture, all those rooms in which so many things have happened.
There is a sense emergent recently of the rhythm of my dance from sunrise to set, bed to bed, being outside of my control. It's dictated by a delicate yet somehow inevitable interplay of doors, walls, floors, job sites, habit, wine, new friends, trains. And the energy that comes out of that beat; not one beat, but a city, a heterotopia, an endless parade of difference harmonizing.
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