11 Jan

So, out my window in the Ramada Inn is thick, falling snow. The Fahrenheit Club is outside the window. There is a large purple and red neon parrot right across the street. The building to the left has large glass windows the size of the rooms. On one floor, ballet. On another, what might be aikido. In pulsing fluorescent tubes, in floors stacked vertically, I watch black-glad graceful bodies dance, fight, move, across bare rooms with wooden floors. It’s lovely– like the visual equivalent of cello — bartok or someone. Snow, jetlag, 20 hours awake or in transit… and of course (being forced entertainment) the show I’m going to see is a durational performance in an old cement factory. I feel like I’m reciprocating with my own durational performance.
I’d better stop this and actually turn up my collar and trudge out into the blizzard in search of art. More soon.


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