This morning began with an AbEx oil slick on the Gowanus canal…. I woke up dreaming of Nazis and the birth of Jet Engines: The ME 262 (and the guy who made the engines moved to Switzerland after the war and sold the Engines to the French, who sold them to the Israelis who used them on the Arabs) and The Americans flying B-52s on 36 hour Sorties from Stateside to Iraq in the first Gulf
War. Jets meeting jets to refuel jets – copulating like humming birds and the gasoline mixes with air and explodes out the back and thrust thrust thrust. Since that war, the military ethos of insane fuel consumption has leaked down to the oil slick housewife who drives an SUVs to the grocery store to by Crisco. Lubrication nation.
I am thinking about the theater of war as a sort of burlesque, or strip show, or belly dance in the Arabian night. We’ve all gathered in a strange dark place to find that we are staring at the asshole of our culture and then someone comes in and light floods the theater and and the pupils all dialate and everyone curses the last one in: “ASS HOLE.” The door slowly shuts. Now that he’s in, the question is, when should he leave?
This morning started with an oil slick on the Gowanus Canal and ended with an insanely large moon that floated in impossible clouds. What happens next?
The dancer walks out over the oil slick, over the water, over the heads of the audience. APPLAUSE! APPLAUSE!
