Caught In The Act: an update from current resident.


I need to confess I was caught in the act yesterday… Yes, that’s right. I violated the rules, and I feel the need to come clean, although quite frankly the posted sign only said, “no stealing” not “no picture taking,” if pictures even count as stealing. After Shane’s Purple Yam musical exhibition (if you weren’t there I bet you wish you were now), I figured I’d head over to catch my new friends in their “pens” as Al and I like to call them. Perhaps, its residual claustrophia, or perhaps we just prefer to think of ourselves as Super G socialites, too cool to be kept behind a fence. Although quite frankly its probably the other way around. The residents are pretty cool themselves. They might very well wish us two indefatigable conversationalists would remain in our centrally hidden, quarantined zone.

Each pen has its own story, personality, unique merchandise to discover, perfect for wide-eyed children like Al and I. We’ve been particularly drawn to the Pakistani corner, the daughter that woos new customers with her jump rope and tell-it-like it is charm. At a young age, she seems to know all the ropes of business. True, it could be the sequins, twelve inch earrings, or exotic robes that draw us into the Pakistani corner, but if all we wanted was florescence, all we’d have to do was stare at the yellow walls. Not that I have anything against yellow, although if I had my pick I would probably have gone for a nice peachy cream to balance the…oh woops…that’s not very “experiential” of me, is it?

To make a short story long, I forgot yesterday that the flea market closes at 7 pm on Wednesdays. Reminds me of living in France. Either there’s a strike or a holiday. Give up making plans without consulting your yearly calendar. Want to buy a bus ticket, go to the museum, use the bathroom? Sorry. Not today.

Since my partner in crime is in NYC this week,

I decided to take a new look at the flea market, lights off, pens locked, the fifty simultaneous video games, televisions, and stereos oddly, disturbingly silent. As interesting as all the unidentifiable contraptions and gadgets appear during the day, they acquire an even more eccentric, intoxicating appeal at night. I thought it was only fitting to take some pictures, to document my creative, archeological find. This is, after all, part of our project, I insisted to the two security guards that thought me rather suspicious and ordered me to leave at once.

I explained that no! I was friends with Donovan McKnight and Lee Walton, directors of the month long Super G experiential residency project, working on a book of poems, dance-artist, do I really look like a thief, a terrorist? eh em…thinking naively that this would redeem me. But sorry friends, I guess your not such big shots after all. Dropping names only worsened the situation. I didn’t know whether to be offended or proud that for the first time in my life, someone had actually found me errrrr threatening and dangerous. Must be the blonde hair and blue eyes. We really get it rough these days. Nevertheless, I picked up three nice, round, ripe persimmons (poets like that word if you haven’t noticed) and of course, a can of coconut milk to make up for my transgressions. Super G, please, please take me back.



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