Thibault Raoult

Dispatch

David Hockney’s “American Collectors” at the Art Institute makes me cry.—Then there was the movie I heard about from my friend but never saw.—Its currencies were breasts and wax.—I won’t make an argument for which were the dollars and which the cents.—But I would love to be able to say that I never wanted to go near candles with her again.—Nevertheless, how do you fragment the sea?—

(((My great, great aunt tried to.—She was a Cubist.—She, rumor has it, slept with Leger, whose portraits I’m not so fond of.—But, regarding the sea, there was a whole lot of color in it.—& I thought it appropriate that the sails were contrapuntal.—Her interpretation of the sea, once I embraced it, became the sea.—

I was raised near the sea.—I might’ve told you already, but rumor has it that I would eat the rocks, black ones mostly, and so my diapers would be absurdly heavy.—My diet indexed the erosion.—)))

Hockney: Blue backdrop.—Suspension.—One-story house.—I suppose these things might be good, but his hand is dripping and their shadows….—They are not unfinished.—They are finished.—

A month ago, my mother lost all her lipstick when her vehicle was taken.—No more midnight blue! though her lips have never been that color.—But doesn’t birth do something to the lips?

Found Footage

Sirens.—Yoga presupposes yoke.—The whale at nine o’clock is an emergency.—Videlicet many-mindedness.—Even the Himalayas seem toyish.—Be wary of papyrus.—The woman is a pilgrim.—I don’t know what we’d even go back to.—Darkness is relatively straight-forward but we need the Guidonian palm.—That the light coming through the yellow canopy of leaves is an aphrodisiac is a shame because you’re down in Baltimore.—Am see-through.—I have hunches.—A man plays the flute and the song is about the sun.—I remember Days of Heaven.—The threshing gets to me bad.—Pro bono.—What makes land holy?—Tender at the bottom of a fountain.—Wave, egret, scissors. Mute!—So you’re in tune?—Who said bald was beautiful?—I want an all-purpose gossip.—She floats an hour a day in the Sound.—She’s licensed.—I want to see how much I can get away with before someone sees.—Even now I remember the velocity at which my sister was birthed.—Ersatz.—Vitrine.—I broke my baton scratching my back.—Let’s eat the bone with bone written on it.—Only death opens up rooms.—The tides were wrong, you hear?—

ALMACENAJE.—Rama bolo rama bolo bolo bolo rama—