A kid plead-wailed at his mama as the rainshower pummeled us into shelter.
Inside was much milling about. CASHLESS kiosks blinked neon primary colors at the greengreys of spring. I wondered what sort of "food" such machinery might produce anyway. And settled into a corner of flesh and bone, wet-smelling and picnic-failed looking.
Sounds like sumpin' you need to pray on, a gentle looking big beard was telling his phone.
I couldn't get Hamlin Garland out of my head. Daughter of a Middle Border functioned sort of like Kaprow and his "happenings" about a hundred years later. By W.D. Howell and Garland opening editorial selection to "localists" there came to be a thawbank, like a cloudbank, in between Romance and Realism.
Waves of goblins, a not-journalism text-to-me read. I checked with a Marie on the veracity of waves and if that was nation-wide; Do we have any sense past-region?
Didn't text back, something like, You do mean people with goblins or who may see goblins?!
I keep a light on in my soul and a bluebird lofted out of my transistor radio as I dialed to check the weather.
Kaprow and company's Get Present was issued without warning, sometimes subtle, sometimes in aphorism and gesture, and looking back it's twinned in the echoes of history with silo-opening test sounds.
Schelissinger was more direct in her effort to pair how we need to approach moment. There's ten of them.
Newscasters and anchors learned-by-doing how to pivot, Continent-to-Continent, Spaghetti-O's to diamond heists, Uncle Joe who just came home (but it's 13 years on in Nam) to presidents' visits. In some respect how could our own brains not start to swing on the stars and slam doors, no more, no more.
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