#Automobile Bud Vase

[automotiveamerican]

Our Most-Viewed Digitized Artifacts of All Time - @The Henry Ford

Interesting stuff from The Henry Ford, especially having visited and seen many of these artifacts in the flesh. In fall 2020, The Henry Ford digitized its 100,000th artifact. As part of a month-long celebration of that happy event, we assembled this set of the 100 artifacts most-viewed online since our first collections website was launched in the early 2010s. Many are fan favorites from Henry…

[sentimentalica]

Coney Island Baby

.. Do you remember the way Robert Duncan taught me how to forge a scream into a smile? When I wore that shimmer dress with a bright face, dangling in and out of bending lower backs, as if yielding for the concave is always as safe and sound as a sound is ever safe. Or was it more than soft as softness usually sweeps for? What I imagine comes next is like a third person involvement in a screwed dormitory, drafting the atlantic, where I plead that a lion cannot surf, perhaps he bit off the cream that polluted the blue phantom pains from your waist and down.

A childless women in a pair of knitted boxershorts wrecking nylon sinuses on a blissful Friday.

I still adore the messy promises of an advertisement Henry Miller disregarded when cutting the Brooklyn Bridge in half,

before looking overwhelmingly to one side towards the navy yard and to the other,

a skyscraping playground left by Frank O´Hara in the midst of writing Lunch Poems to his downtown lover, my hero in tights who prefered a typewriter over the museum so he could fully commit to language as a lifelong affair with typing out those faces we never saw-

Back to Miller on the bridge,

after humming calm untitled jazz scores to the jewish men abiding fear of Javeh with the tide, in an opium fuzz- there hovering in the hudson river screaming out from his deflated lungs; “Either way is hell.

And in that throwback of a breeze, he lifted up the wind that was hardly present, as all literature begin to explain, replacing the sun with crisp gleaming grapefruits

sleeping their tails off by the boats, channeling this and that to someone so unique in the mind of a person in love- not even getting through to the middle

of what that could possibly entail, I reached for the pen that dropped to the floor.

I have enclosed all of these excerpts from that day of disclosure, where roaming with thrifty eyes were enough to carry observations as valid

as their imploding certificate of choice.

I painfully watched you dodge again and again all the signals from the woman across the room, who was fiddling with old news papers and caressing her presence with yours- what more could you offer than a significant blow to her hair? Don´t you know she just fancied a tickle all the while you plundered the new bought lace with such a precision, that not only changed her mind but that sold her the momentary conviction that

two bodies are better than one.

Nadja by André Breton is being moulded prematurely. The havoc of looseness, abstraction and faith comes to term with what bohemia needed in order to survive-

it wasn´t the firewater, the endless dipsomaniacs or the following haze of polyamourous misconduct,

and it wasn’t explained to you on page 24 of texte zur kunste,

it arrived on the first submarine put under oceanic credentials in 1776,

taking us fingertipping with smudge free tokens across a timeline of panic and refusal to pay the fine for loosing.

Nadja makes drawings of mermaids and ravens in tuxedos on napkins, con aperitifs from regulars at bars that wear mustaches as neat as the reclining canes next to woollen slacks and tipping leather shoes, and most importantly, she wears the objection and surrender to the myth-

Before the map was a map-like mappish mock making a trail of the female on the run from a young soldier, a rusty locomotive and yellow cannon fudder- she who dropped a face beneath the love of god, that feared you to be up there with the rest and descended you poor,

but wealthy enough to go figure in the world, relentless or cool,

leading up to Tikal and the viaducts of Rome.

In my diaries, I have written that she was found in July, when it was still a frigid crater. These seasonal mileages seem to make soup into porridge, where it should have been steak burned slightly from the toaster.

The string that spinned from unsolicited leverage a journal can only attempt to regain when left alone, brings up again the question, what essentially is so special, and what is so rare that it must be done?

I think of Meret Oppenheimer´s wooden foot model of two feet forever connected by the toe-

I wonder if the same idea could be applied to a straightjacket? Having two identical jackets connected at the end of the left and the right sleeve, so when wrapped around, one are interlocked, sharing that closeness but forever be disconnected by the brain. Airing the thought to my father, he tells me so all relationships by virture will grow- Applied insanity is cocoonish by nature,

only its sad to me but rest assured enough, if its is meant to be buckled as nice or not.

Here was not the following that took the flight in good moods- forgiven is my tempo, and forgotten is my malignant partitur- speaking on behalf of the lesser memories in transit(Hangups need company too):

On the third floor of this catatonic ship, remembered as an apartment building housing all the dresses left behind, some from Kenneth Anger´s puce moments, some by your calibrated daughter and a few by my amputed former self,

as we all took turns in wearing them for the camera, the mirror and the door-

none to which I recall made a remarkable difference, and none to which I recall bothered to master the right hand more than the left- as if the hand, the gesture and the handle bar pulled enough forces to tell the next inhabitant to keep still.

I sit on a twirling barstool by the window overlooking the petite arrondissement, number forgotten and mail box key even more- because the mail here was as thinly stacked as the handkerchieves in the drawer, where left over weed buds had seen better moisture and light to grow- as if smoking and caring were one and the same whenever we opened one more envelope, unravelling detritus and gold- you always told me that I should dance with my eyebrows lowered, as if to look gargantuan and benign, my pupils like rodents and my neck like the unbroken vase on the table left untouched whenever we would fight over all the things, over all the sentiments unnecessary by the age of who cares.

The piano departs a melody into the carcass locked brain child, he swam so careless and far- we wondered when drowning could turn talent,

instead did our words under the bed, the carpet and the foil-

where giving the lampshades names and strobing my heart with sentimental ennui, then so sudden a decision by two individuals about to leave Mercury for Neptune, I believe they call them your parents, but it might as well be Frederique from downstairs playing games with us.

Even if I sold you my pirouette, the plie and the adagio in one and the same deal- watching the pants folding when undressing for you, I tried to release my own heat and dust from the etude in waiting for the signs of exile and disempowerment, as the feet, the bricks and the fastly lit matches danced in front of a peak, the one that I would actually fall from, that after some minutes was just as exhilarating as the vortex of boredom or apathy,

color me dead, please.

How lukewarm these tunnels can be, as if temperature could make hell and paradise separable only by a few degrees- lets wait and see of how tired we become- the ice can just as well be the kindest thing you have ever and will ever know.

Why did we decide to follow the trafficked fanfare on last weeks Sunday,

the day that trimmed our hair into petty nobodies and cerebral distress overshadowing the fact that you left me by the wink of an eye-

I spent the rest of that afternoon pestering my nose after doghouses and snaredrum infernos-

slaving to the eternal search of my lovers marks,

as if sniffing them out again would re-live the wormholes I tried so hard to get out of.

Dear elbows, do you still bestow upon yourselves the rejected caleidoscope of the last battle by that oak tree in the mud? A fist in the eye of a beggar climbing my way-

convincing he who doesn’t want to give you to give you exactly just that-

Was I maddened by your chest, your scribbled version of a song and that Irish brilliance of another intellectual wake? Had I not worn that hat and had I not put on that nonsensical laughter, would you have taken me to the fifth floor? Had I not said those uninspiring lies and oblivious contradictions,

would you have lifted up my skirt and felt yourself into the busty abyss? The dreams that dream you in and out of the edge, the transpired blueprint of your neckline, all that make you read me out again, to be summoned the brevity and the holy weight of the day

when I´ll fantastically open the door again.

I know you painted those words on the wall, so the whole city eradicated the horses, the automobiles and everything that Paul Virilio will write about in some decades in the pentecostal future,

the stark violet century of a clenching lawn-

even after the bedlinens stretched its last fibers,

You who rescued my pillow in March.

I spent my last evenings peacefully honing the opulent relics, representing all the phallic emotions of our time- they call it architecture and it died when your face spoke their version of gratitude. Resurrected was the only theatre in town, and the stage was ours, and one day with a two week release note, I will bleed myself ready for Not I, and my teeth would reach the elasticity of a wild duck, chewing your knuckles and swallowing the poignant marks devoted to the editor of heartfelt misanthropies.

Graphofobia, the fear of writing, and Philofobia, the fear of falling in love- these two reckless twins are tormenting me at night, giving short stories their flare for fight against the light- drifting as us, into, let´s say, a more or less fumbling form of hope, perhaps this is not the idea and neither a glitchy plat du jour, but I have not so much as a heroine in them to connect with- as I violate the tropes in their spinnings.

I must continue without you, and frame the last image.

Here´s a man who resembled a fox so much that he began the behaviour of one, as he painted his skin orange, fortified his freckles with feathers sucked in gum arabica and sought the mystery of a white end to his life becoming a bold aspiration to confront exactly just that.

You keep me here with your global pauses of serene blockage, all the while Handel, Bach, Mihalovici and Schubert is flowing out of the windows of your condominium, like flights of epicurean princesses- while in me, non had fled as much as a mile, out here then so far from the strata of asphalt, may they who cringe remove the organs that nurture and grow abundantly out here in the wild, dark and green, if only the spline could split in millions and defer into the quantum leap, so my head could release the whips, and then I will take that money you send to keep me imprisoned and

torture the very cloud your head has been replaced with. The doctors have become my characters for a play that will travel across the Indo-European landslide, and finally reach you back in Paris one day- they will not wear white coats this time, but black face paint, really more like a minstrel show with a diagnosed tone, and they will make you laugh and then cry when they show you the multiple X-rays and the empty pill jars all the while arresting the very pile of skeletons underneath the stage, dragging and re-assembling bones til the break of dawn in which a glowing fish and a silver-rectangled octopus attempt an opportunistic strangle of the entire cast.

I remember you saying that tragedy is the controlling denominator of our destiny- from which we all will suffer as redemption continues to exist as a moral predicament.

This will not be the theme of my life.

Because as long as I only understand the water if it wants to drown me and fill me with that which is already me in the most biodynamic logic possible, call it peace, name it an exit of thought- either way, it can make a fleet for those who cannot swim.

I decided to stop dreaming of you, of stopping the waves on the shoreline all together, this is nowhere as close to the flowers obeying sunlit reflection of the aluminium stationaries frequently flipped and retained

as the potential support system for visitation and small talk-

cold when dark and only remotely pleasant if heated by some bourgeois arse.

Unravelling the not yet written into a sanctuary- I thought it had so very little to do with the love I scheduled for, that it´s all just a wasteland of deceptive pleasure-

tuned into your grey streaks I fell in love with along with the smell of freshly applied wax.

My intellect reeks fixtures in situ, removing is not the same as hiding, when taking a picture, and leaving the sun, I relapse into that slum animal- eating a 400kg heart from a dinosaure.

Even though I want to write you the beauty and the beast in one and forever changing opera buffa,

it will never emotionally rescue the concept of us, despite that I know you will open the kilogram tortured package and drop a knife on a monday, cutting a toenail and a bond, a monday we remembered as a normal day that never seated normality enough to consider the sublime in white sugar cubes, that rushes through your veins and never returns.

Hi again, again and again and its hello ok? a bloody hello, a hello that don’t need a hello back but yes, its hi for you now, maybe not maybe, i don’t know, a nod or a sank, a smack, a what might not be eyes and a foot.

Greet me the one opportunity with salt- hydrating afterwards with water dripping from your sullen chins whenever the fois grois let you down as April lost its kingdom,

but in the food hall, I look up at incandescent swords, cutting blue light into yellow umbrellas,

these manufactured resemblances to the decline of victorian households, let me think of two parallels, one that commemorate the loss of the living room as we know it with the itchy chandeliers and their wavering spirits, and secondly, that modernism was not a private affair at all, but rather, the first ill conceived format for the public as a neutralised mass, ironically only commissioned by shallow hands, the way social currency will drive and destroy our future- but the carpet can’t be pulled out just yet, cause we still make the same mistakes again, just as the one made when they decided to push me out from the ground. so I’m left with the story of how I fought with mother, and how her pearls glitched in the stature of silence and in the betrayed light of her satin robe, not giving any right to my hands shifting the prodigious stalker of decorative puns-

The book shelf was weaker than I, and so the archive was disastrous to my temper,

the way you all attempted to put a lit on genuine rage,

and not even once trying to justify its potential within itself as much as a chess game needs gravity and a birds eye.

Mother, I´d rather fight with you again in the fortuitous swing of a chandelier, than to sit next to you and watch TV until you cannot breathe anymore and my insanity has been mirrored dazzlingly between the cushions and the remote-

Why couldn´t Icarus be more precarious? Moving under the sun, heading for collapse. Remember that director who asked me to be a cat sleeping under a shadow casted by a tower about to fall on a little bench, where a bag of flour had just expired, leaving a town in hunger and grinded desperation? If I could only emphasise the most wondrous places in the world that bypasses strangers as carefully carved columns, pretending to be pillars of the might, covering my most favourite vertical spots in the vision from my stand. If romance could live forever in train stations, back alleys and trenches- even holes to shit in, temporary life could linger and soothe a bit longer, die, and then anticipate and leave very little marks on my skin,

as if these places are meant for the mass, the crowds and in these, I, and you spend half of our lives,

leaving me to suspect that a life could be so reasonably unnoticed and ghostly-

My longing of your couch, your fume perturbed coat and your grinding shoes- if I could belong to these items and die in another persons grave, i´d come pretty close to the truth. After black, you said, you can´t really return to colors- as we sat there opposite each other in your kitchen, as two darkened snails- being detained and free from whatever demanded us to be anything of interest out there, out there on the dull street, out there on the mortal pavement where only a stabbing and a parked vehicle could aspire to change.

I awake in my single bed frame, a single slide, a single keyhole- I wonder if its similar the one we never locked but that we stuffed with wet newspaper so silence could permit. The resonance of steps are friends now, can you imagine, just as I skipped that surface of that wooden floor in the apartment in Paris,

where my limbs were angles and curvatures, my steps were heavy there, just as your yawn, just as your limp posture, there by the window, there with a cigarette, there with a sentence that transformed the world, as if that pure entity was yours to discover and to assemble anew-

a fare well to the absurd you say,

when I looked up from that surrealist magazine Minotaure, and how I repeatedly begged for a contact there so I could publish my renderings of growing up with a molesting brother, a Prussian mother and a father, who, to your misapprehension I have made peace with by now-

you believe that the Jungian archetype will never be fully satisfied and that I look for a father figure in you,

but the bollocks and the dread of that must remain scarcely unresolved because its fiction derived from cocaine covered beards that sink and scooba dive into inferior lakes of innocent minds. Id rather avail myself of the story where the mother is my rock, and the brother my curtain, my father a chair, on which you kindly sit on, family being your home and so me, what could I possibly do to further objectify myself?

Perhaps a taxidermic bear, extended back as a carpet, soft stepping and where rudimentary love making sheds an eye before the fire- here I sleep, eat and forget about the matches, once again- foxtrotting, cocktail hours aside, when a rare street light makes up for the broken candle that intended to bury us alive.

How I hated that coat and how I resented those shoes- dress me with your plays, your whispering novels, I infatuated myself with the demise-

An elegy to the woman who I saw putting on 20 coats, 5 hats, 3 pair of shoes and 8 stockings, who diligently picked up tulips and gave each one away to imaginary passer byes, the stronger sexes of our time, in which she sang “Pleas Don´t Talk About Me When I´m Gone” by Gene Austen.

Don´t forget the one you haven´t met yet, is what I want you to say to someone one day, and that someone once told you and meant it and glanced just right over your shoulder while inhaling a fractal of bad breathe, while half way defeatist kept pulling your eyes back where they used to belong- in the junction of the deepest knowledge

[bestcasketarrangements-blog]

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