fun foto's with fuda

photography: Joe Fuda
clothes by: Evan Biddell

The typewriter twits and tumbles
“hail to forgivable regrets”
Space, dot, dot, dot
“save me with a pen, not in my ass”
Dot, dot,
“he can’t find my doorstep”
Comma,
“and I can’t find his mistakes”
colon,
“....”
Period.

“Do you still love me?”
“Did I ever?”

message sent: 12:59 AM

I didn’t know myself back then. I just knew what it tasted like. And I could recognize sporadic, perverted gazes passing me by.
I still don’t know.
And I can’t do anything about it, other than crossing my fingers and desperately looking for lucky charms, pennies, and overlapping sentiments.
I guess, I already “miss-you”

rock, rock, rock

Oblivious glasses tear through the tire
subscribed, prescribed, and described
as an empty street

Filled with cribs that crack, suddenly
impotent parents leave them
as they enter the shopping mall
to buy ties
and tomatoes
and cloths to clean the red, diced, tomato-ties
Rock, rock, they do rock

tip toe around premises of adult behavior
the baby runs away

crycrycry

how
do
i
change
this
all?

"marvellous"

There are two ways for me to tell if i’m scattered all over the place like the yolk of a poached egg:
- whether my nails are long and polished, or short and chipped
- whether I remember to take my keys, cash and notebook, and our meeting, or not



Here is an excerpt of my notes from my visit to the AGO’s ‘Surrealist Things’ exhibition, unmodified:

“Such funny animals we are...perfectionist creeps. And every few decades we panic: individually, or as a whole generation, society, country, specie...
We wonder: has art ended? Are newspapers dying? Does democracy work? Is earth perishing? Are morals reliable? Is god irrelevant?
And occasionally, those that point to these intangible predictions and/or realizations, raise controversy and perhaps at some point forget all about it and become commercialized.
We are such peculiar mammals, seize-lessly and over-zealously yearning to discover and be the first one to invent a new color.
We divide and kill, accumulate and capitalize...we fetishize and learn and break, all the while floating in an anxious mortality; counting days, minutes, decades, centuries...and even attempt to foreshadow the absolute quantity of death, finitude, and infinity.
I know all of this, and yet, leaning on the museum wall and splashing a Dali tester perfume on my shall, I can’t wait to read this to you.
Such peculiar animals we are,..."
- May 12 2009