forty seven: Speeding into the light of the Last Semester of the MFA. Last, but not least: Back to School.

Katya Grokhovsky, Status Update or How do you feel? 2011, acrylic on canvas.

Words fail. Transforming slowly back into the student.
Now. Anxious, annoyed and interrupted.
I keep thinking about my recent visit to Disneyland.
However, some kind of half formed and barely baked partly-raw and vile--sentences overwhelm me and I am not consciously capable of forming a written statement about the visit. Chaotic, overcrowded, over- marketed and psyched, elbowed and yelled at, fire-worked and paraded for Xmas.....lit up like a giant, yes, one of those Happy Xmas trees, spooned around and tossed aside.

I guess it was Fun Fun at the Happiest and most occupied -to- the maximum- human-capacity place on earth. I am pondering. Looking at Paul McCarthy's recent work inspired by Disneyland- drawings and sculptures. I am feeling viscerally aware and fuelled. Highly lucrative overwhelming desire to be overtly messy and slightly vulnerable, physically fragile, mentally edged emotionally up against and into a wall of art, exposed, wide angled-opened and violated by Sparkle-Pink-Happiness of the Disney- sprinkled Cartoon Sugar-Load. I am there. Can I play now?

Can I be disgusting, can I not clean for weeks? Can I live as an over- educated, artistically professionally inclined, coffee-snob-addict-soon to be unemployed, once again, pretty piggy-pig? Please? Can I eat whatever comes to mind, whatever I can afford and whatever I , please, want? Can I stay in bed all day in my flannel faded pyjamas? Can I live like this? Please? I declare my bed a studio and get out of it, reluctant.

Perhaps, it all makes absolutely no difference. Stressed, angry, ill and overwhelmed madly, welcomed back to the Happiest Place ON Earth, Art School . Hooray!!!

forty six: sultry layers of dust/Status Updates

Katya Grokhovsky, Status Updates, 2010/11

Strong feelings were meaningless. Tender Californian sun glowed, catching her by surprise. The light, the awkward light. Uninterrupted Space. She lowered herself into the ocean of limitless procrastination. Regardless, she will conquer this vacuum. For what? Are you Happy dear?

*Happy: feeling light.

Sipping her latte at Intelligentsia, she inhaled deeply. How are you doing? Has anyone asked?
Waxing lyrical about the artist's fate. How she wished for Paris, 19th century. The poverty, the parties, absinthe, early tragic death, prostitution and immortal genius, of course.

*Massive Headache: drinking lots of water and daydreaming endlessly.

Stand on your head. A year, another year, another year.

*Traveled to Los Angeles and back to Chicago. Tired and pensive. Hibernating.

Painting with words. Do you remember when you wrote about the sea? The black sea?

As you mixed your watercolors so technically well, imagining unclaimed lands and territories...romantic heart of darkness.

The folds of her vintage eight dollar cotton dress covered her fuller figure well. Black tights, black boots.

*Buying vintage clothes. Spent forty dollars. Bought: two sweater dresses, one black sweater, two velvet bolero vintage jackets.

The dusty slightly mauve sky promised little. The rain hasn't stopped, perhaps it will snow soon. The red brick houses, Velvet trench coat.

*I have nothing to say today.
*Watching Mad Men. All seasons.
*Anxious. Re-working my CV.
*Obsessively expanding my horizons today.
*Reading book : Power, follow up to The Secret.
*Self-not-helping by sleeping all day long.
*Pushing the envelope of daytime laziness.
*Deciding to begin.
*Not cleaning my bedroom.
*Cooking basmatti rice. Broccoli and garlic stirfry with soy sauce. Dinner.
*Apple cider. Organic. Two spoons in a glass of water. Every morning.
*Unbearable incurable net-surfing.
*The edge of reason: work on it.
*Multi-vitamin. One a day with a meal. For women.

*In the dead of winter: sun shines in My Book.
*Not consistent: Julie and Julia, Eyes wide shut, Whatever works, White nights, Flash Dance, Shall we Dance, Dirty Dancing, Becoming Jane, Dorothy Parker and the vicious circle. Laurie Anderson at Harris Theatre in Chicago.

*Hypnotized and floating.
*Is one more important than the other? - Random phrase, random book on my bedroom floor.
*Be Loyal to both: phrase from an ad, glossy magazine on my floor.
*A second chance for every skin. Vogue.
*Chop. Chop.
*Waking up to my heart beating extremely fast.
*Nothing to report. I am cold.Hot coffee and toast with honey. 4pm Breakfast.

forty five: pause - ahead:

Katya Grokhovsky, video still, senseless, 2008

So let me PAUSE, right here.

Saving......

I have decided not to dwell on the Best off 2010.

It has all been, THE Best.

I take the packaged year, all of it neatly wrapped up into the softest layers of the tulles of memories: still fresh and burning, the subtle, smoky colors of unseen, wished for romantic sunsets and anxious deadline-induced sleepless nights, covered in the new knowledge of unknown, yet confident, tomorrowness, I put it gently away into the pocket of my Experience . Right now, Yesterday. The blonde wigs, the dancing till dawn, the whiskeys on the rocks, the frustrations and joys, the failures and successes, the slow dancing in the lobby of Palmer House Hilton, the dresses, the American Flag, the Ukrainian dancing as a boy, the travels, physical and metaphorical, hours of crap TV to numb the over-active mind, the endless reading lists to last lifetimes, the heated debates, the arguments, the nervous smoking, the stress and yes, new hairs, devoid of color. grey. I kiss.

And so, as of NOW, I have 3 months left of GRAduate School and this blog. Forgive the sentimentality and tears, held back behind this screen, for the Tears, they will be streaming. Oh, come theeeeee, Come oh, May.

There will be, of course, amazingnessss in Future, for MISS Future is a Queen, always, ever shiny, sparkling and shimmering in the oh-so bright distance. I believe. For MAster, Master, I am the MAster, I can do.....

What awaits? As any Graduate Student worth her/his salt, I have no clue. MAster plan?

Yes, many in the stew. Yet. I rest . I pause. Processing the ingredients.........

Trusting my own gut instinct, throughout most of this time, I currently take pleasure in the fact that I am now, in the MFA club. What the hell does it mean? Stakes are raised and they are high and some of us are perched onto them. Money spent, knowledge earned, dark competitive bruises and post-critique scars aquired and healed. Graduate Family. For my life.

As I arrive in Chicago O'Hare Airport from LA, at midnight, one cold weekday, last week, I am greeted by a good looking: " what's up baby, welcome to Chi", I whisper " home..." and smile shyly back, answering I am excellent!!!!

Shall we make some ART?

Let me come out of it and as I stand , ambitiously creatively naked in front of you I proudly SAY this:

I love ART.

For what it's worth.

ok, melting my own icy heart with the melodies of listened- to- in- the- name- of- research of hundreds of slow songs , I ALSO say, in the words of those we know well,

LOVE> is ALL you Need

r.i.p 2010

forty four: Welcome- 2011- Yes We Can

Katya Grokhovsky, Artist Journals, 2008/9


The breadth, the breath of the human stuffy warmth,
stretching lovingly beyond your own means
laying out the large, roughly scratched, leathery hands
hot to the touch they sway and lower you to the ground
up again

pushing tight, cursing roughly, imagining:
eating dirt, consuming spirits, wanting more: being so much less
spotting pretty hard, agonizing over the details of the damned table setting
forwarding painfully aware memories

many more unreliable wishes:
to be adored: to love
to start and manage

RIP 2010

pastel lavender desire, frosting on your cupcakes
I am wishing hopelessly
wondering
orange cat
lazy winter LA sun
pink flannel

nothing beats you
blood or rain

fast winds of thought
accumulating into whirling pools beside your feet
free falling and acrobatic challenges in my head
heart in first and foremost later
don't you forget this
I am your true only one: blue and borrowed
forgiving now and escaping,
the universe tells you to jump off the bridge:
glad to help you

hmm..
what
testing and preparing for flying
skimp up stream

flow

gather strength
shoot the loads

homage to dead women
I form into a puddle of rubbery texture
when I'm dead , I'll meet you inside the sticky cherry jam darkness, homemade

Pina Bausch
Frida Kahlo
Artemisia Gentileschi
Louise Bourgeois
Eva Hesse
Marilyn Monroe
Iris Murdoch
Virginia Woolf
Sylvia Plath
Emily Dickinson
Audrey Hepburn
Georgia O'Keefe
Hannah Hoch
Meret Oppenheim
Chanel
Catherine the Great
Camille Claudel
Jane Austen
George Sand
Edith Piaf
Madame Vionnet
Isadora Duncan
Bronte Sisters
Anna Akhmatova
Natalya Goncharova

Black prune waves, emerald green velvet traps, pomegranate wine, sucked in
plums and peaches, that was quite a traumatic reading of your palm
plus size models, marching on your street today
meaty, fleshed out, volume up, voluptuous growth: trembling
softening your resolve
squeezing, fuming, grazing: greetings
smashing cliches, fluffing egos,
creeps and line up your freaks

fake lawns and butterflies: badly made ideas floating in your wine glass

she looked around and imagined softer light. this room needs orange curtains and a vase. yes, a vase, the vase has to be green. perhaps bright green, perhaps even neon green. perhaps grass color. perhaps even a bottle. those poor flowers need to be in a green vase, in fresh water, on that table, near the entrance to the dining room. she suddenly got up from her favorite yellow faded velvet armchair and walked out of the door. lifted her skirt up. she quickly bent down and looked at her crotch. well definitely no underwear. she had no underwear on. she looked up. just neatly arranged well manicured houses in front of her. she kept holding her dress up. her white cotton skirt had blue polka dots splattered on it. her neck was covered in bed bugs' bites. she kept smiling. Los Angeles.

welcome
ornamental pursuit of excitement and anguish: salutation and disease.
I don't want you.
I just didn't think I wanted you.
perhaps I do want you one day, one day perhaps I will
Perhaps I should give you up:
I am brutally honest.
Meat.
describe: bloody raw. meat between your teeth. rotting , vicious flesh.

what the hell is love.
perhaps: unreliable and messy.
unaccomplished and real.
vile. for the sake of the mess.
undying and scrutinizing you: every inch of you

there is a pimple there is a freckle there is a nail sparkling dust in your stupid fake Disney sky
And so That was the Year
The tough skin became scales
green blue
the lovers, aside, pushed away

achievements

2011.
ready. set. welcome:

forty three: iris , virginia, sylvia....waiting longing waiting

Flowers, Viktor & Rolf Collection, Spring/Summer 2003, stills/screenshots

Falling harder

I long for the softest

purest lace of thought

Retire to calm nervous tension

relieving painfully uncovering

snow- coldest touch

I suffer and look directly at them

They stare

Sylvia, Virginia, Iris

Marching and banning your drums

Stones in your pockets

Rivers flowing, the seas, the sea

Seagulls

your brave thoughts

Screaming onwards

Go, go, go

Match your flags

I continue

Sparkling diamonds

Hands apart I have no fear

Hollow blackness and granite silence

I am upside and downwards

Reunion of thought and old feelings

You are my mountain

Embody me, you’ll understand

Or perhaps you never will

Does it matter?

To my knowledge I shall resign from you

Right now

You remind me

I crawl towards your chronic fatigue

Gather your ample skirts

Shake your meaty limbs and overflowing breasts

Standing absently minding doorways

Blurred vision

My flatfooted stumble towards you

Red lipstick candlelight

You will never leave my bed

Around your meek and weakened limbs

I am afraid

I am afraid by entering me you will steal

These emotions are worth nothing

Nothing is

The glare of the screens

the music beating your heart

Forward

For one day, you too, shall die

It won't last

I have barely gathered

What do you want from my body

Solid heavy embrace

Trembling in your selfish presence on behalf of all the others I salute you

You loved me once

Perhaps again you do

Reflective surface of my skin I can see you

From here

the state of the need

your new name

we fly back and fade to black

Leaving painfully

Behind your fingertips and traces of saliva

Silvery red and slippery

The space between you

the clown

The children we shall not know

The trees the stones of jewellery the leaves and spring

Oldest pausing backwards

rewinding

Never reaching, never floating

In Paris or London

Belonging singing praising you

The cities swoon and crumble under the heaviness of your leather boots

Stumbling over her grandeur run and laugh

Accordingly

There are no windows

No doors no exit no entries

The hidden treasures

The space

The floating worlds and slowly cooked ideas

The stew of flowers

I collected in the fields

The coffin of the melodies

The red cloth

Covering

What are you waiting for

For the treasure of stupidity

For the true value of mad rush

the flat fields and meadows

in the corn, the wheat

solo

Knowing unknowing

Rising and skies above

The loneliness pursuing

in shadows

Xmas light decoration

lurking in the smallest

details carved in whiteness

purple shadows and yellow highlights

Waiting Waiting longing longing

the light

Reminds me

I shall be terrorizing you soon

Herself

Do you know where she lies?

Somewhere around here

The children we call women

The women we call old

One day you will be what they all are amongst your mountains of junk food bright wrappers plastic to go containers and Jewel oz co bags amidst piles of unwashed laundry mimicking your relationship to your self one day it will be omitted little how large how big how small you were how thin how fat how thick one day wondering the streets of the city of oz which you create you stumble across the world of you and once upon a time you see yourself floating above yourself and shadows and lights fade and disappear and towards you opens a close up of your worn face and only then with windows or required thought of truth we shall Miracle into the future light of our deaths and only then you require anonymity of your art.

Bright bold spectacular

Working hardly

Perfecting hair

You bring her food

Enjoying the body

Rooted in loneliness

Describing in blood

I understand your Misery

Sometimes silence trembles beside me

I let it

Fuck

the world owes you nothing

the blue stain

the chunky white stroke of your paint

the brushed aside

your tiny world sins heavily

awkwardly you dance

slowly gesticulating

nowhere have I found

these types of unconsciousness

the green of pastures

to accomplish

to shock

to remind and walk

to flirt feverishly vomiting your juices

I swelled

nothing remains whilst you may weep

nothing stings anymore

golden

the troublesome boy

the best of the year

the dry mouth

the liquid

the soup

them sitting beside me

Virginia, Iris, Sylvia

Head in the oven

River

The brain stew

The active birds

Outside

The snow covered Chicago

The unwilling flights of fancy

I AM to be

awaiting

glowing in my own dark

Ah, repelling men, I rejoice

Oh gloomy days

I seek you out

The depressed awaiting collaboration

The contributions are welcome

upraised

unskilled and handsome

tint the nights

of the blankets

the coffee colored stains

the trees in your frontyards

no imitator

you try so hard to learn

words express hardly touching your toes

you burn burn burn for nobody to catch

redeeming and fasting

the true meaning

the blur

the idea

that idea

I want gypsy floated large skirts layers and volume

flowers unmatched all colors mixed

twirl and scoop swoon and return

alert

everyday is your party

Party it up girl

woman you are

refuse to be polluted and shallow

floor length tulle

barely skimming

ashes

number forty two: -----pause-------push to shove---

Matthew Goulish, "39 Microlectures, in Promixity of performance"
A staple book on my desk. Studying with Matthew next semester at SAIC.


Australian Musician, Nick Cave's book. Must read.

One of my old time favorite books on Hannah Hoch. Cut with the kitchen knife.
Maud Lavin. Taking her class next semester at SAIC.

Thank you. School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Pause.
Stop.
Leave the field. XMas. New Year.
Trip to LA planned.

End of Semester 3. One more long Breath to go. One more.
And perhaps? Qualified? Finally? Terminally?Perhaps? A black hole?
To not fall. To not disappear. To keep enquiring.
Anxiety levels and confidence levels. Up. Simultaneously.

Critiqued to exhaustion. Mental meltdown. I am full. Thank you. For a little while.
Where am I? Chicago.The optimism, the disasters, the tragedies and crime, brothels and World's biggest world's first and world's finest, Modernism, architecture, Bauhaus, Ferris Wheel, The Wizard of Oz. The cold city in all respects, I still love you. The lonely nights, freezing mornings, damp summers, beautiful city I am alone , charmed, exhausted, alternatively tired and excited. What shall we do in the future, Chicago? Dance to the end of The Navy Pier? Twirl in the Halls of the Art Institute, a nod to Degas, ballerinas/ prostitutes, here is Caravaggio, I must bid you respect. Marvel at Chagall windows, I am saddened by the fact that I am not from here. From nowhere, I waltz around, shuffling into the destiny of my own ideas.

Reflecting on my own reflection in the Chicago windows, Louis Sullivan's ornamental voyages and Modernism's Utopian failures, I marvel at the American West. Watching snow falling onto the windows of my large studio, I catch myself crying silently and in mourning. Where shall I find my home?

A movie trailer on my street, a large broken tree branch, slightly hanging, dangerously dangling over the street as aftermath of the recent snowstorm. Walking in the cold, covered in the warmest clothes I have worn since my childhood in Ukraine, I wait for my gourmet bagel with Salmon, cream cheese. I make my Illy coffee espresso and position myself in bed, with the laptop on my lap.
It is the first day of the winter break and I am emptied out.

Hundreds of books to read, hundreds of thoughts to sort out. Conceptual, performative, ephemeral, theories fly around me, swirling around my heart. What am I to plan? Hundreds of applications for teaching positions and exhibitions and residencies.

The pang of travels, unconquered lands...The howl of the journeys, awakens in me, slightly pinching at my guts. Go, go? where? have I not found something to hang onto?
Suddenly, feeling my own foreignness.
Friends, leaving.

Degas, Lautrec.
Invisible labor, class, gender, race.
How far to go? How far to push?
What am I doing what am I saying?
Where do I stand and what do I believe in? Audience.
Where is my stance?

I do not make objects, do I have something to sell to you? I said SELL. This is after all, America.
Sell it damn it.
How about, as suggested, put a price on the clipped finger nail. My cut hair perhaps? Package it nicely?
For your pleasure?
Sell it.
The success.

number forty one: heightened state towards

Katya Grokhovsky, Untitled (Dishevelled Bunny Plays with Metal Sticks) 2010, photos Andrew Green

Performance.
Response to Linda Kaban's performance and Script.
Script.

Title: Americano Americano

You wanna be Americano

Americano.

He's drivin' a jeep


But he ain't in the Army


Gets all his cigarette money




From his mommy




Dressed like a rootin' tootin'
Texas cowboy


But this lone ranger's


Never seen a horse


He wanna be Americano
Americano, Americano


He wants to drive a Cadillac


Now he's chasing showgirls


Smokin' Camels,whiskey and soda


Now he's never goin' back


He's cruisin streets for gold


Dressed in designer clothes


Brother if your too slow




You'd better not blink


Or you'll wind up in the drink


Wanna be Americano
 Americano, Americano


Gotta buy a diamond ring


Cause that's his baby's




Favorite thing

Okay,all right,yeah man


Wanna be American


Wanna be American


He's in the land where


Anything can happen


Reach for the stars


Grab that golden ring


Just remember he's Americano


well watch it pal
'

Cause he'll take everything




He wanna be Americano
 Americano, Americano


He wants to drive a Cadillac




Now he's chasing showgirls


Smokin' Camels,

Whiskey and soda


Now he's never goin' back


He likes that rock and roll


He's playing baseball


Loves Marilyn Monroe


A coca cola Joe


And a pizza pie to go


Wanna be Americano
 Americano, Americano




Gotta buy a diamond ring
'

Cause that’s his baby's




Favorite thing


Okay, all right, yeah man


Wanna be American


Wanna be American


Wanna be American

Small American flags

(greets the audience heartily)

(to any audience member)

Excuse me, but would you mind bringing over one of those little American flags, from over there? See? Yes, over there. I can’t seem to reach it. Could you please put it in my mouth.

Open mouth. Painted flag. American, Red stripes, Blue stars. White cotton. Large. Aggressively painted. Cheap acrylic paint.

Over her head.

Flag Dishevelled. Worn over a naked female body. Draped over the pedestal. Centre of the space.

Helpless and passively aggressive. Sitting under hot spotlight. Sparkling cheap dishevelled blond wig. Badly cut.

Asymmetrically. Messed up.

Wearing the flag. Off the shoulder. Hole cut in the middle of the large piece of white cotton. Painted.

Aggressively, expressively, energetically.

In contrast, she sits, her legs and feet together in front of her. Heels. Gold leather.

Audience around her. In front of her. Watching. She is watching them watch her. Passively. Powerfully.

Spotlight.

Nearby, piece of white cotton cloth.

11 small plastic American flags positioned on it. Spotlight.

Music. Loud. You wanna be Americano? Loud.

In Italian.

Whisky Soda Rock’n’ Roll.

Music. Loud. She is moving to the beat, slightly with her almost bare shoulders.

Sit on the pedestal. Allow audience to come closer.

Wait a little longer. A little more. Wait and watch them watch you. Helpless?

They cannot see her hands. She suddenly opens the folds of the fabric, draped all around her and points towards one member of the audience. She looks at them, into their eyes as far as she can see.

Point. Choose.

“Could you please, I’m terribly sorry, actually could you please I’m so sorry to bother you, could you please, I’m so sorry to bother you I’m so sorry, actually, could you please pass me a flag. Thank you.”

“Could you please, bring one of those flags, those little flags to me and put one in my mouth? Thank you”.

“Make sure you know your rights, proud Americans!”

I can be free in this place I wake up in everyday! Free!

Under God. I Swear.

Once again.

Excuse me kind Madam/Sir would you be so kind as to bring me one of those little American flags?

Could you bring it over here, to me? Could you put it in my mouth?

You see I can’t reach I have no hands. Thank you so much, so kind of you.

Hold it in your mouth. She is holding it and watching them, watching her.

Watching herself, she is facing a mirror.

She is looking around her. There is a lot of excess of fabric around her, there are white unpainted spots on the fabric.

She spits the flag towards the white, yet unpainted space.

Spits the flag right out of her mouth.

Next person.

She is watching, looking around, watching the audience.

Would you be so kind?

Thank you. Put it in my mouth.

Thank you.

Putting it in my mouth. Plastic and fabric. Which side?

She.

Through the perilous fight,


O'er the ramparts we watched

Were so gallantly streaming?

Once all of the members of the audience have participated.

Oh say, Oh say, Oh say, Oh say can you see! (sung.)

Help me. (whispered.)

I pledge allegiance,

To the flag,

Of the United States of America.

And to the Republic,

For which it stands,

One Nation,

Under God,

Indivisible,

With liberty and justice for all.

With liberty and justice for all.

With liberty and jjjjjjjuuuusttttiiiiiccee.

For all Immigrants.

You want to be Americano? Americano? Americano?

Whiskey soda rock.n.roll.

She stares into herself. She blinks and is blank.

She spits out small plastic American flags and goes on.

One by one.

Does this make you feel uncomfortable?

It makes her feel empowered, yet disgusted. American whore.

Americanized spaces places cultures.

Continuous action of asking and holding and looking and spitting.

Over and over again. Repeat.

Again.

O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

Could someone please?

I mean, proud American? Please put it in my mouth.

She is blond. Cheap wig. Red and blue paint.

Cheap acrylic.

Repeat. Again. Once again. Repeat.

If I may say so myself.

You may. Thank you. Thank them.

Thank the audience. Again. Repeat.

I just feel like every day I wake up I’m so glad to be in a place where I can be free.

I’m glad you feel that way.

I do. It’s just great that I have the freedom of speech, and I can stray away from script at any time.

That means I have the freedom to say this…..

(Clears throat.) Well, that’s enough of that.

Please put the flag in my mouth. Opens mouth.

Hold.

Could I have a fellow American to bring me one of those flags? I can’t seem to reach it. I’m much too helpless and can’t reach places so far out over there. Now, make sure you put it in my mouth.

Opens mouth. Hold.

Anyone else care to give it a go? (to another audience member.)

By the dawn’s early light

How about you? (to another audience member.)

What so proudly we hailed,

Continues inviting guests to put flags in her mouth.

She continues to spit them out.

Onto white spaces of her excessive cloth.

Repeat. Again.

At the twilight's last gleaming.

Whose broad stripes and bright stars,

Through the perilous fight,


O'er the ramparts we watched,

Were so gallantly streaming?

Oh say, Oh say, Oh say, Oh say can you see!

Music. Americano. Americano.

O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

You do wanna be Americana. She stays blond and cheap and immobile. She watches the audience .

They are watching her watch them.

Surveying each pair of eyes.

They seem disturbed.

Repeat.

One hour. Two hours. Three hours.

The audience decides not to participate.

Nobody.

She keeps surveying her playing field. She is a creature of American want.

After gesturing towards each member of the audience with her finger, unsuccessfully, she suddenly gets up, clumsily and starts collecting the flags around her. They have all been spat out and are laying all about, displayed on her excessive cotton flag.

She surveys her domain around her.

She forgets the audience.

It is now her task.

She reaches out towards each flag.

I’m going to put this in my mouth. She can now.

She puts each collected flag into her mouth.

Holds it for a prolonged period of time and starts aiming to spit towards the white cloth where the flags used to be positioned.

Repeat. Hold. Again. Again. Holding it.

Spitting it out towards the white uncanonised cloth.

She fails with each flag. Continues the action.

Repeatedly.

You want to dance

You play baseball

You drink soda

You drink whisky and coca cola

You take money for cigarettes form your mummy

You want to pretend to be American

Pretend

You drink whisky with cola

I love you

American. I love you America.

You were born in Italy

Okay?

Americano Americano

You want to be fashionable

Fashionable

Americana

Still have a few things to work out

Very, un-American indeed.

She goes on.

Spit. Put. Spit.

O’er the land of the FREE.

Spit it out and colonize the rest. Un-consume.

Undo the DAMAGE and repeat.

Again.

Undo.

Repeat. Walk away. Gather your fabrics and walk away, stumbling. Free.