Ok, more poetry....
to describe my very brotherly feelings about wine
Is there any other time, Welles,
or any way?
anyhow.
ok.
que?
-Qrson.
In fact, tonight I might do an interpretive jazz dance to reflect my innards, feeling.
In a previous life, about 4 years ago, there used to be this semi-annoying kid that was vaguely dismissive about anything that he hadn't done himself. He was a self-proclaimed avant-garde dance enthusiast, or so he claimed.... in utter unhypnotic hipster denialism.
Hold on, let me see if I can find his digitally preserved moment of public obscurity:
Well, here it is, sort of....
The video doesn't seem to want to play for me, but the comment: "I get it...the "art" isn't what's on the stage, but the anger that it causes in me. And the strong urge I have to slap that tubby bitch in the face."
This insightfully accurate comment serves the purpose of my point perhaps better than I ever could.
One morning I wrote freely on an open community chalkboard: "Avant-garde dance is neither."
I liked the circularity of the statement, almost solipsistic, but in open opposition rather than in the usually self-serving way, yet entirely self-serving in its humor.
The sentiment reigned.
Avant-garde wine is also, either.
Well, the wine above has nothing at all to do with what I am writing about. What I am writing about has very little to do with what I am writing about.
Tomorrow I will write about another bottle,
to not do so would be un-animatedly inauthentic, as conceptual dance.
.
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