TABLE OF CONTENTS

HISTORY OF THE SUBURBS: A PROJECT FOR ARTFORUM

MOLLY NESBIT

MORTAL THOUGHTS NOW, PLEASE, the smaller things, spores, not the drone of ideas in the abstract, lives. Chase after them, the lost attentions, slack. Words will fail you. Well they should. Because faded glamour will no longer quite do, monograms slipping off handkerchiefs, lipstick off lips. Pool of feeling? puddle.

ÉCRITURE

a cry

Even the noblest ideas dissipate in dirt. And yet the enlightened mind’s dear decrepit certainties can be turned over yes like some old tortoise shell, belly examined poked. Specter and hollow suggest ideas too and bring us back trudging to gaze upon heavy, vulgar common sense clasping bits of the new and the old to its breast in some unstable, ungainly, well, intensely physical order. An order that cannot really be understood through the idea of order or theory or system or machine. It is more like a suspense, or a chasm, or the kiss that outwits time.

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