They were all the intellectuals who inherited art and then made some and it dripped to money. For one thing there was space for everything. They had mansions. The gave mansions away. Nobody could be as good as them, or better. They had names just enough different.
I ended up there one night. I wasn’t afraid of them. Some of the paintings were fascinating. You can’t help but feel bad about how they are treated, all piled up touching. the dust was bad, but I’ve been in dustier places.
Why it is that on nights like this I am the oldest left standing is beyond me. Sometimes I have danced with young women and really felt lucky. Young women can be so beautiful.
The place was not manageable to make a show if you didn’t know what was there, and hadn’t played around with it before, but I tried.
Everybody was stoned and taking turns trying to make a show.
There was a movie projector.
I didn’t want to hurt any of the art, so I really gave up. I forgot the name of the big guy who was dressing in the new nihilist way of tight small sweaters and pants.
They all dressed like children.
They knew better than to say they knew better, so they gave up.
I had to give up, plus I had been threatened.
So I took off the camouflage. The camouflage was some kind of gauzy material that I had wrapped around me.
I didn’t like the exhibition I had made, or how I had tried to blend in, and was sorry I was there.
For 16 dollars in town, the town, downtown, taken over by the same sorts of assemblage artists, or trash healers, I got a broken tin toy police car.
I was going to give it to them.
That was a stupid thought. Now I know better. Now I just know how perfect and better it is to hurt and destroy those who look down on me.
Kill the enemy,