Time in a Bottle

It does not matter if I am having a raging good time or not, shop summer still flits by on a wing, mind in a way that winter never does. Your head would have to be made of hard cheese not to decipher the metaphor here.  The fertile periods are fleeting- youth, online beauty, inspiration, all managing the briefest of stays.  Darkness, decay and hardship seem interminable.

Even as I spray myself with water and lay in front of a fan in order to sleep, I love summer.  My studio is a brick oven and I am its wee molten pizza, still I love summer.  It seems like only yesterday that I started eating like a sow in anticipation of all the summer exercise.  Well, it was yesterday, but it was not only yesterday.

On Saturday I checked out the last day of Boatel, a floating art space in Far Rockaway.  Diving off the pier into the warm sea, I upended and a plane soared (so close!) between my feet and the sky.  I felt like I was playing with a toy in the bath.  I am not what you might call a happy person.  I am more of what you would call an intense and anxious worrier. Happiness is not really my jam.  Well there is no place or time on earth that I am as happy as when I am floating in the great, blue wobbly.  It is such a strange and unique sensation, I pursue it relentlessly in this short season.

At Boatel we modeled some fashions for Etta Place, a Bushwick salon of arts and oddities run by the fabulous sisters Dimmitt.  Jeff Stark of Fluxus talked about Moby Dick accompanied by haunting music, the motion of the waves beneath our floating pier, and John Barrymore and the white whale on the silent screen.  He brought a freshly baked PIE.  Jeff Stark is a master manipulator.

Now I am staring down the barrel of…the last of summer.  Try not to look too hard at it, you might just cry.

Complain of the heat if you must, just pass the oysters and the Aviations. I will be where the sand meets the sky. Cultivating skin cancer.

 

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