Prosthetic Faces For A Forest of Freedom: Wait, What?

[Hilary Konrad]

Whether standing on one foot or hopping sideways on a tightrope drawn taut between any two second story window. Riding side saddle on a sea star horse head on any planet asteroid or space debris object. Still I will make a mail artist out of you. I will do this, that and then I will snake a veiled smart ass doubt the dew as well; all this and then, walls. Tape. Fences borders more and more walls. Green walls purple walls walls of squishy slimy balls enthralled walls but still, walls.

Wandering obambulating aleatorily and aisle eyed the mail art style slips cleanly through a crack in the eggshell, my exterior motives showing how embarassing and me bestowing this very manifesto piece of growing dough just some sing songs of the misconstrewn but anywhere is everywhere so be it and then there remains this: there are dreams all over the floor, my game is embroiled in the embracings of those I do not wish to smell and any puddles and listless lakes crawl up from the depths of which I swear on a picture of you as a baby wearing a suit of cinnamon and riding a horse all the way across and under the ocean: I will make a nomadic hydrophile of ideas lost and single file. Tesserae and tile it might look like argile but by time’s turnstyle I will climb all the while single file really I mean come on why do you look so beguiled? The notches on a stick, the first missives sent, drummed out on crocodile skins, hiss and die on the fly the me myself in the I implied shall sail wall eyed into a sea contorted under skies cavorting all night and that night made of sighs. Out of your entrails an epic casserolary will be built, of all your best most innovative ideas I will climb to the apex and weep tears of art. I will make a goldmine of rubies and a silverfish of nutmeg, all out of your favorite teddy bear’s cotton fluff stuffing.

To be sure let it be know that when you sign on to become an official member of the league you are doing much more than just signing away your life to mail art, books, and a thousand years’ worth of letter writing it's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye but come on now really sit up straight and hear you this: It is freedom free food free gifts and on top of this cherry topped sunday what does the mail artist find? Only yet another cherry on top of that cherry, a hat wearing a hat, throwing the trash can into a dumpster for fear of something newer, funnier, more resplendent and with a higher sky than your average art, poetry, work of art, let it be. In other words: something fattening and fatuous, wrapped dryly in irony under a cast iron moon, the chivalry proud and strutting aflutter and the exchange and the sharing and the free trade of information knowledge language word play? I stutter.

In short by becoming a mail artist you are not necessarily sealing your fate and contrary to popular belief it is a myth that becoming a mail artist will cause your eyeballs to eject from their sockets at the exact same moment as your bowels relax thus locking your entire neighborhood as well as yourself in a closet forever with only information art and the postal system. Permanently ruining your chances of becoming a flight attendant kindergarten teacher girl scout troop leader or mormon clergyman: check. Meh.

Signing off for now, still pushing the pencil just a little too far but for all the right reasons and STILL HOPING HOPING MORE HOPING AND THEN SOME HOPING THAT SOMEONE OUT THERE IN THE IUOMA ABYSSMAL YELLOW SCREENERY MIGHT COMMENT ON THIS GOBBLEDYGOOK AND GIVE ME A REASON TO WRITE SOMETHING BETTER, SOMETHING REAL MAYBE, NEWER, LESS SHALL WE SAY THIS: @#$? I rest my case. Thank you for coming to this posting and good night.
Hilary Eliza, Interdisciplinarian Extraordinaire, Totally Obsessed with Art, Zebra Amongst Horses, Bat Among Birds, President Vice President and the only member of the international League of Eternal Students where stupid questions are allowed to run free and a book can be torn from limb to limb or blown to smithereens in favor of a new kind of redoubled book, a book of a book, look! Over there! In the trees! Made you look! (I'm 5).