some times (for Meghan Gordon)

some times.

some times I would visit.

some times I would visit, and it was her studio.

some times I would visit, and there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

some times I would visit, and there was a bar made of plywood, but there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

some times I would visit, and there was a bar made of plywood, and she would serve me a shitty but refreshingly cold beer, but there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

some times I would visit, and there was a bar made of plywood, with a glowing green neon sign behind it that spelled out the name of the establishment. I would be there alone, meaning alone with her, and she would serve me a shitty but refreshingly cold beer, but there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

some times I would visit, and there was a bar made of plywood, with a glowing green neon sign behind it that spelled out the name of the establishment. I would be there alone, meaning alone with her, and she would serve me a shitty but refreshingly cold beer. Then, eventually, other people would show up, and the meeting, ostensibly to meet the curricular expectations of the program, would turn into some thing more social, but some times there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

some times I would visit, well in advance of the dance party, and there was a bar made of plywood, with a glowing green neon sign behind it that spelled out the name of the establishment. I would be there alone, meaning alone with her, and perhaps she would serve me a shitty but refreshingly cold beer or perhaps a hot tea if my enthusiasm was flagging. Then, eventually, other people would show up, mostly her peers but some times mine, and the meeting, ostensibly to meet the curricular expectations of the program, would turn into some thing more social, but not exactly a party. And some times there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

some times I would visit, well in advance of the dance party, and there was a bar made of plywood, with a glowing green neon sign behind it that spelled out the name of the establishment. I would be there alone, meaning alone with her, and perhaps she would serve me a shitty but refreshingly cold beer or perhaps a hot tea if my enthusiasm was flagging. We might talk about stuff happening at school, or relationships, or maybe even the bar itself—meaning the physical fact of it, but also the way a bar signifies in this context. For example, how do we know when an ashtray is just an ashtray and when and how it becomes art? And perhaps we’d also acknowledge that it’s not so hard to make art, really, but then again it’s really hard to make good art. Then, eventually, other people would show up, mostly her peers but some times mine, and the meeting, ostensibly to meet the curricular expectations of the program, would turn into some thing more social, but not exactly a party. And some times there would be a painting, or a sculpture, or a video, or perhaps even a poster, but I certainly remember other times when there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

some times I would visit, well in advance of the dance party, and there was a bar made of plywood, a little sticky from use, with a glowing green neon sign behind it that spelled out the name of the establishment. I would be there alone, meaning alone with her, and perhaps she would serve me a shitty but refreshingly cold beer or perhaps a hot tea if my enthusiasm was flagging. We might talk about stuff happening at school, or relationships, or maybe even the bar itself—meaning the physical fact of it, but also the way a bar signifies in this context. For example, how do we know when an ashtray is just an ashtray and when and how it becomes art? And perhaps we’d also acknowledge that it’s not so hard to make art, really, but then again it’s really hard to make good art. Then, eventually, other people would show up, mostly her peers but some times mine, and the meeting, ostensibly to meet the curricular expectations of the program, would turn into some thing more social, but not exactly a party. Usually I would leave before the party actually started, or I would try to leave when some body started smoking, or at least I would pretend to try to leave because I was never very good at leaving. I’m more of a lingerer, I think. And some times it would become so crowded there that you couldn’t even see anything but “the social,” even if there would be a painting, or a sculpture, or a video, or perhaps even a poster hanging some where in the room. I remember looking at art there, but I certainly remember other times when there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

some times I would visit, well in advance of the dance party, and there was a bar made of plywood, a little sticky from use, with a glowing green neon sign behind it—faced out to the world, or at least the occasional passerby, and beckoning—that spelled out the name of the establishment. I would be there alone, meaning alone with her, and perhaps she would serve me a shitty but refreshingly cold beer or perhaps a hot tea if my enthusiasm was flagging because it was the end of a long day filled with many meetings, and many conversations, and many ideas. Some times she’d offer me whisky, which was the best of all available options. We might talk about stuff happening at school (which makes sense because we were at school), or relationships (hers), or maybe even the bar itself—meaning the physical fact of it, but also the way a bar signifies in this context. For example, how do we know when an ashtray is just an ashtray and when and how it becomes art? (There seems like a joke in there some how: “An artist walks into a bar…” Actually, that’s not a joke but a depressing allegory on repeat.) And perhaps we’d also acknowledge that it’s not so hard to make art, really, but then again it’s really hard to make good art. Then, eventually, other people would show up, mostly her peers but some times mine, and the meeting, ostensibly to meet the curricular expectations of the program, would turn into some thing more social, but not exactly a party (but definitely a becoming-party). Usually I would leave before the party actually started—actually became itself, or I would try to leave when some body started smoking, or at least I would pretend to try to leave because I was never (and am still not) very good at leaving. I’m more of a lingerer, I think, and often times situated at some precarious threshold between belonging and not belonging. Or between belonging and longing. (But maybe that’s all of us, some times?) And some times it would become so crowded there that you couldn’t even see anything but “the social,” even if there would be a painting, or a sculpture, or a video, or perhaps even a poster hanging some where in the room. I remember looking at art there, but I certainly remember other times when there was nothing to look at even though it was her studio.

May 10, 2016; not yet published.