Wrote your name on a paper, stuck it inside a lemon, and threw it in the freezer, fucker.
I'm thinking of a new project - making an altar with yams and coconuts. Other shit. Glasses of water and candles. I might do it, but I have to think what the centerpiece of my altar will be. Of what will it be in homage?
That's what happens: instead of socializing when I have a lot of time to do whatever I want, I end up spending my entire days alone reading and going into bizarro-land. In bizarro-land I get a lot done, and it was a default destination in high school. I would stay up all night making lamps, re-arranging my furniture, or climbing up to the roofs of nearby apartment complexes at sunrise. I get papers done in this space.
I kicked off this most recent foray into The Land with a book called "Santeria: African Spirits in America."
One time in Miami, when I was about 14, I dropped a chess piece on the floor of my friend's mom's bedroom. Prostrate on the bed, I lowered my torso down the side so that my hair hung down and I was upside-down. My view of the bed's underside included usual under-the-bed crap and an indiscernible dark round object. Upside down with my forehead veins sticking out, I stared at the thing and wondered what it could be before I grabbed it. My friend Ino (short for Innocencia) waited for me to get up. "What are you doing?" I grabbed at the round thing and pulled it up on the bed. It was a coconut.
"What the fuck is this?"
(casually) "Just put it back. It's a coconut."
"Put it back??"
"My mom put it there."
(pause)
"It's for luck."
Later that year she showed me her father's project - a rusted razor blade atop a metal pyramid frame with some weird rocks underneath the apex. "In 3 weeks the razor will be shiny and new."
Her dad's religious robes were always lying around the house. He was a security guard and had weird hours, so we went through his shit all the time when he wasn't there. Instead of cultish artifacts like chicken bones and shells we just found a shitload of porn. Black magic porn. Wouldn't that be a cool name for a production studio?
That's what happens: instead of socializing when I have a lot of time to do whatever I want, I end up spending my entire days alone reading and going into bizarro-land. In bizarro-land I get a lot done, and it was a default destination in high school. I would stay up all night making lamps, re-arranging my furniture, or climbing up to the roofs of nearby apartment complexes at sunrise. I get papers done in this space.
I kicked off this most recent foray into The Land with a book called "Santeria: African Spirits in America."
One time in Miami, when I was about 14, I dropped a chess piece on the floor of my friend's mom's bedroom. Prostrate on the bed, I lowered my torso down the side so that my hair hung down and I was upside-down. My view of the bed's underside included usual under-the-bed crap and an indiscernible dark round object. Upside down with my forehead veins sticking out, I stared at the thing and wondered what it could be before I grabbed it. My friend Ino (short for Innocencia) waited for me to get up. "What are you doing?" I grabbed at the round thing and pulled it up on the bed. It was a coconut.
"What the fuck is this?"
(casually) "Just put it back. It's a coconut."
"Put it back??"
"My mom put it there."
(pause)
"It's for luck."
Later that year she showed me her father's project - a rusted razor blade atop a metal pyramid frame with some weird rocks underneath the apex. "In 3 weeks the razor will be shiny and new."
Her dad's religious robes were always lying around the house. He was a security guard and had weird hours, so we went through his shit all the time when he wasn't there. Instead of cultish artifacts like chicken bones and shells we just found a shitload of porn. Black magic porn. Wouldn't that be a cool name for a production studio?