j/j hastain, Fusion, 2014

When Yaweh advanced into Ezekiel in the form of penetration, the four wings of the chariot became instantly erect and bloodshot and then fell directly into limpness: violated prey shot by the gibbering hunter. The four live animals (man included) that were previously sprawled beneath the bronze base of the chariot in servitude to it shook until their vestments fizzled off them. The enforced baring of beasts does not make them feel respectable; animals don’t like to have their hair removed. Hair is a part of the body of a beast for a reason: it protects. How can beasts be expected to behave in the manner in which they were previously commanded when the commander takes identity away from them? This is the threshold where chaos ensues. This is battalion: the rebellion of the rue. As he attempts to walk away, the man’s feet suddenly de-materialize from beneath him. How are we to serve when the shapely appearance of the divine in a form reverts our evolutions and advancements? How am I to ever walk the lonely miles of the vale of bones and schisms if the very feet on which I would walk have been taken from me?

"The Prophet Ezekiel Spinning His Wheels Versus a Shaman Spinning Within The Wheels’ Inherent Design", j/j hastain
j/j hastain, Fusion, 2014

When Yaweh advanced into Ezekiel in the form of penetration, the four wings of the chariot became instantly erect and bloodshot and then fell directly into limpness: violated prey shot by the gibbering hunter. The four live animals (man included) that were previously sprawled beneath the bronze base of the chariot in servitude to it shook until their vestments fizzled off them.

The enforced baring of beasts does not make them feel respectable; animals don’t like to have their hair removed. Hair is a part of the body of a beast for a reason: it protects. How can beasts be expected to behave in the manner in which they were previously commanded when the commander takes identity away from them? This is the threshold where chaos ensues. This is battalion: the rebellion of the rue. As he attempts to walk away, the man’s feet suddenly de-materialize from beneath him.

How are we to serve when the shapely appearance of the divine in a form reverts our evolutions and advancements? How am I to ever walk the lonely miles of the vale of bones and schisms if the very feet on which I would walk have been taken from me?

"The Prophet Ezekiel Spinning His Wheels Versus a Shaman Spinning Within The Wheels’ Inherent Design", j/j hastain

Man Ray: Duchamp with Shaving Lather for Monte Carlo Bond, 1924

New York was buried in snow. I got a taxi on Sixth. There was a three-car collision. I gasped when I saw the ambulance. I paid the driver, ran out of the cab, dodging people and puddles of slush, slipping on ice. By the time I got to MacDougal Street, my suede boots were soaked, my feet freezing. Marcel Duchamp was waiting in the cafe, sitting by the window, smoking a cigar, looking out into the distance… I stared at him in amazement. I had never met a dead man before. He waved at me. Perhaps because I was staring. Or did he know who I was? As soon as I got to his table, he pointed to a poster of Super Mario Bros. It must have been there for years. Half of the poster was torn off the wall. “I like this, you know,” he said. “What do you think?” I didn’t know what to say. He turned back towards the poster, then motioned me to the chair across from him. I sat. I introduced myself, stuttering out my name, thanking him for meeting me. He was very polite, very patient. There was no judgment in his face.

"Marcel Duchamp on Art, Artists, Readymades and Twitter, Even", Bobbi Lurie

Man Ray: Duchamp with Shaving Lather for Monte Carlo Bond, 1924

New York was buried in snow.

I got a taxi on Sixth. There was a three-car collision. I gasped when I saw the ambulance.

I paid the driver, ran out of the cab, dodging people and puddles of slush, slipping on ice. By the time I got to MacDougal Street, my suede boots were soaked, my feet freezing.

Marcel Duchamp was waiting in the cafe, sitting by the window, smoking a cigar, looking out into the distance…

I stared at him in amazement. I had never met a dead man before.

He waved at me. Perhaps because I was staring. Or did he know who I was? As soon as I got to his table, he pointed to a poster of Super Mario Bros. It must have been there for years. Half of the poster was torn off the wall. “I like this, you know,” he said. “What do you think?”

I didn’t know what to say.

He turned back towards the poster, then motioned me to the chair across from him. I sat.

I introduced myself, stuttering out my name, thanking him for meeting me. He was very polite, very patient. There was no judgment in his face.

"Marcel Duchamp on Art, Artists, Readymades and Twitter, Even", Bobbi Lurie