We met amongst the debris and casually arranged ourselves into a pact of brothers and sisters, using a series of first-person pronouns that we had devised in the meantime.
It feels so great to write our name in piss! MACAULAY CULKIN WAS HERE. Don’t ever forget us.
I recognize our handiwork beside a row of urinals, and think I’ve been here once before. With cock out, I swiftly sign my name with a siiigh, and immediately evacuate the scene of the crime. A trivial token of freedom, an uncut wage of privilege.
“I’m coated in a thin layer of paraffin and full from day-old bread. What are you up to tonight?”
“We will live like this one day,” she whispers, pouring more of the mixture out of the blender and into the bucket. She blinks, she stirs.
“I love it when my hands are dirty”
“♫ ♪♬♩♩” he anthemed back.
Limp legs dragging, I gather spit and prepare to strike. With sharp teeth and venomous bite, my lips taste nothing but dust to the wind. Furious! So I bark at the sun and shake the shadows, warning them of my savage belly.
“Only iron strikes iron,” I mutter softly. And clench my fist, howl at the moon.
Oh lonesome night! And babbitts bawling, the wind biting the bone. Loosen your hand, and you’ll devour the sky. But rob a man of everything, and that man will no longer heel. Alas, the heavens know little of the barking of dogs.
We left the mountain with no particular idea other than to form an ensemble such as had never existed before, that would break the existing territories and provide a vehicle for self-deception. This is the phone call that has been silently following me around. I hastily pack my bags, with shirts and shoes gasping for air – one last squeeze before the big jump. I roll my eyes as my companion recites to herself – 24” by 12” by 10” – wishing to be the immensity of the sea, but not the sea itself. Here, there, everywhere, my destination remains unknown.
I’m thinking of what we’ve left behind. I hastily drop my bag to the floor with a thud – the contents set free without delay. It is too late for my sandwich, but my sheet music endures. Letting myself daydream, I remember a familiar feeling and immediately smell rank leather, wet from rain. My tender stomach wretches as babies cry, and a line is drawn. It’s hotter here than we imagined. The shh-shing sound of automatic doors shh-shing ... The smell of bread again ... Stale or not, I’ve been preparing for this moment for months.
Thirsty eyes, belly in the sand, I forget the year before I forget myself.
Miami-Dutch is a collective based in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. The group comprises of Lauren Elder, Brian Khek, André Lenox, Evan Lenox, and Micah Schippa. Recent solo exhibitions include Queer Thoughts, Chicago; and Courtney Blades, Chicago. Miami-Dutch will participate in a group show at Honor Fraser in Los Angeles in the spring of 2016. This exhibition at Shoot The Lobster marks Miami-Dutch’s first solo presentation in New York.