Wednesday, May 8, 2019

Lonnie Monka, cream of staunchness

The photograph features works by Abraham Kritzman and Marlene Steyn 
from their joint exhibition Kneading the Torso Makes a Buzz
Abraham Kritzman, Marlene Steyn, Àngels Miralda
Curator: Karni Barzilay
Kav 16 Gallery, Tel Aviv-Yafo, Israel 

cream of staunchness


his oval glasses held with metal frames longwise perpendicular to the ground most of the time which is to say when he stands or sits straight but a memory of a face from the morning bus ride does not capture a conversation about the theoretical implications of a subject matter studied by the one with the glasses those oval glasses with metal frames which might not be oval at all and not not oval when not on his face and not not oval when other glasses but not oval perhaps because the memory and its inaccuracies speak a playful language of continuity like the continuity of the glass in those glasses oval or not oval we must assume that they help him see when he studies and see when in conversation on the bus talking about the perfect high paid low hour work schedule enabling a series of bachelor’s degrees to be pursued but surprised then who would be that he still is that qualifying force of those degrees and last night I dreamt of moving to some outskirt of Jerusalem whose apartment had a backdoor that led to a whole bustling part of the city I’ve never been to and how surprising it is not to be surprised in the moment of discovery that calls forth exploration as action over epithet just as I’ve waited my whole life for this moment and here we are


improvisation improvisation improvisation like words without poetry stuck in the head of an unattractive man but by in the head thus at the base of the tongue and by the base of the tongue thus reverberating in every single taste bud bearing a metallic flavor rising up from deeper in the body so unlike waiting in line for coffee in a mall with the man who told me as a friend that he loves me as the same man who is braver than most people will ever be and the man who is so wildly out of control in a playful way that everyone is afraid to tell him any command commanding the way that I had to push him to the ground when that sharp shooter was pointing the gun upwards between him and me and more towards his face a long barrel and light military uniform on that woman shooter looking up where we didn’t look because I pulled us down crawling across the floor to ride the escalator on our bellies and again to crawl until riding another escalator on our bellies and then standing up in the basement garage because we knew where to go where we wanted to go where we should have needed to didn’t plan on planning


when I say sky I mean square because the square is painted on the page as many squares lined up but not lined up too symmetrically and each square is a different color and most of them are actually rectangles so different than the challah shaped cauliflower that I showed a friend how to cut up in the shuk thus losing the two women who were with us and which woman to go for is like a gamble and I when I say gamble I mean those secrets that people know they need eventually to tell someone about but choose not to because instead of life filled with horror inducing repetitions of memories is no different than a challah shaped cauliflower flying through a sky which I’ve heard contains more sky because rectangles sometimes become squares and all of those hard edges can cut people causing tears and when I say tears I mean zero because when I say zero I’m indirectly trying to talk about the passing of all this counting which leads us into meaning that and this meaning changes as a wish to follow one another into the the capturing of sublime


trees for the woods or the woods for the trees as if anyone has ever really seen a tree or seen woods as if the way people spoke about leaves would help us grow accustomed to the continual disposal of finger nails and hair falling off whether cut or not falling off like nuts and falling off the roof like I hope that that soldier wouldn’t when I handed over my gun as an extra gun for him because I know that the second I decide to use my weapon I'm a target and survival kicks in so much faster than any premonition could have prepared us for the fact that on those 9-11 planes the passengers should have rushed the men overcoming predictable patterns of behavior no different than any conspiracy theory as a ball of yarn with a secret thread factory hidden at its core but unraveling the way the left over hairs wet in the drain after I shower are not unraveled as I gather them and wonder for so short a time about whether they come from my chest or my head before throwing them in the toilet where alone I live they will not be found except when I have guests and the woods and the trees and the guests and the roommates and if the confusing avenues of abstraction could be constructed so as not to allow automobile traffic then some Israeli motor cyclist would still mess everything up just as I hid in the room after handing over the gun hiding in a closet as if after the enemy passes I could go live in the wilderness though there doesn't seem to be much wilderness left so I guess I would need to seek out the woods but the woods is a concept for the many trees I’ve heard about and I wouldn't know what to do with trees anymore because I’ve been dreaming about Mars and interplanetary colonisation in my waking hours where the desert expands as a sandy horizon where I’m afraid of being boring as much as being bored needing to plant the seeds of my future forrest


don’t ask me about my dreams because I will tell you about the dreams that I shouldn’t tell you about and I will think of those images that express the secrets of my body that should remain secrets but all I want is for them to be exposed like the edges of every orifice and whatever enters every orifice and whatever exits every orifice like a sewing machine stitching objects that belong together to be together because otherwise they wouldn’t be together like the material used in 3-d printers printing scanned objects like the tight curls of man growing long and the spiraling printed plastic exposing a kind of tightly wound tube but not hollow so do not fill the tube wound to form curls of a man which in their growing have become scanned by nobody in a dream and I already expressed my warning against dreams like I would express warnings against a turd in the middle of a path leading up a mountain that is still soft and exudes such a smell that nobody needs to talk about what everyone feels in their nose but craves with their tongue in a kind of negative tasting what we want not to taste which reflects none of my dreams and their film of fog that all day I carry wishing to stop wishing to want what I can’t have but truth dreams and all of what we want to tell each other is so much sewn material that can’t be but will be printed



a surrealist game in an art class is like the way that people think that they are not interpreting the window cutting off the purson cutting of the mirrored image of meaning as in the one two three don’t think why would anyone instruct people to instruct them not to follow the instructions like a bard in the street with bandaids crossing out his yes and the eyes are crossed like a high school daft punk pleasure fest feeling its way through the grime of suburban sprawl


this definitely is a pipe properly broken in with a layer of resin allowing whatever you want to pack inside and smoke the way daily ladies are smoking but never say but unless you want to see a reverse mermaid’s butt not fish not woman hiding everything we do from the neighboring onlooking eyes that elicit censorship as self-censorship because the internet catches pleasure principles extracted for future use the same way that the future will never come for me baby the way that you like not having remembered dreams most of your life in the fact of the end of the imagistic lack of symbology caught in the net of the black the intersexual phantasmagoric lack of meaning in your interpretation of resin like the holes in a fish lip or the holes in the lip of a sad suburban boy who doesn’t want attention from his parents as if the whole sky blue sky clouds and all were stuck in a single eye inside us all looking at us all looking being watched because the same infinite sets of discrete objects are talked about so too is the wholehearted mixing of lovers’ hair the face of faces because the hair is a trail of the past stronger than any one eye that eye which when it isn’t looking though its always looking but when its not looking at least we can say that it is eyeing us all


how many generation back can the pain be like how many generations back can the source of today’s troubles just as how many generations back have each of us been forgetting the maze that we travel through because it’s not a maze but a labyrinth and all labyrinths are mazes like this maze that is not a maze and instead of remembering any dreams instead of what we are supposed to do and instead of telling about the we of the we inside of us all all there is to offer is a sore body full of muscles growing strong shortly in the midst of muscles growing strong in the long arc though arc like no rainbow and an arc arcing from your eyes to mine in which we all miss the mark that marks the marking like the specific locations wherein the creative spirit grows dissipates fluctuates flatulates no differently than looking for the few women that were few because they were women in a time when winking was not what today winking is

—Lonnie Monka