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(gone) Today I completed my cage for a bale of hay, which isn't meant to be cage but as an enclosure for the bale to stay. The bale is held in a frame of pine and woven wire fencing; 1 inch by 1/2 inch welded steel wire that changes how I see the bale's complexity, bouncing my vision and giving me the order of a grid in front of the organic chaos of the sweet timothy and alfalfa. The bale has head-room but little extra space in front and back, or on either side. The working title for this piece is, "don’t go", a plea that falls on time‘s deaf ears: associatively the memories held by a single bale (e.g. cut open and shaken out onto the floor of the horses‘ stall) have been remade countless times, the experience replaced by a memory, the memory changed with each remembering. Physically, the object held is a series of actions passed: the bale a living section of field, cut , dried, and bound tightly, taken from context; an object in an object in a room in a city. Here, and already gone. |
Farmer's Daughter There was a man who is lost He came to a house and knocked A farmer came out and asked, "what The man asked, "Could I spend a "Sure, but you can't touch my daughter." So the man was sleeping that night And that night, they did it. The next night, they did it, too. The next night, they did it, again. Until one night, the daughter said to So the man went to the daughter's The next night, they did it The next night, they did it, too The next night, they did it again. They have done it in every single So one night they decided to go When they went in, the father has The man asked, "what the hell is The daughter said, "it's his hairy ass" So the man and the daughter were But unfortunately, one day, the father came "What, I didn't have sex with your "I will tell you the truth, I |
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