Writing
On such a winter’s day
Wish you were here
All the leaves are brown and the sky is grey flat high and dead channel. I am writing to you from the future from a golden golden state from a dream from the past from a time from a suspension of where there is time to scribe in lines loose and curling densely back of a blank postcard last on a rotating wire rack floorboards wide and splintered fat nail heads high on a day such a winter’s day from the north and it never rains in southern from the end of the land sadness end of the land gladness all your utopias all your cliffside hot spring suburban garage arid chaparral canyons free breakfast for children free as information wants to be as the spectre of a world which could be as adobe brick by brick mimeograph eucalyptus grove survival school new thought dock shutdown piles of lichen-encrusted redwood shingles in the Mendo underbrush all the thatched high bluffs of your mind facing the setting sun setting settling blindingly in the fogbank offshore mercury waters of the 26th ave glass-off. Paved over sucked dry and charred. It’s always like this every time I try to write the tragedy I see as plainly as you do I just can’t do it. I met myself in a dream And I just want to tell you, everything was alright Hey, now, baby…
introduction to SOCIETY Issue 1.5 published on the occasion of the exhibition, California, at ILY2