Feb 27, 2010


With the incense burning and refusing to flake off, Warren Hildebrand’s Swung From The Branches with his project Foxes in Fiction imprints your skin on a happy, video game gizmo connotation, to make you just, smile. It looks like Bill Murray with the pink wig this time, with the camera sinking in and out of consciousness. It looks like a breath that you won’t forget because you felt it on the inside from afar. It’s a squishy mattress with gray t-shirt bed sheets, a porcelain blanket that is peach and a heater for the room that is always the hottest in the summer, but always the coolest in the winter time. With the moon reflecting off that snow, and that sky being purple and maybe gray, songs transfuse into little objects on shelves and swirls that are three dimensional in scent. All is still except the smoke, and the flames tickling the wax of three tea lights on the window sill that is chipping because of the rain that leaked onto it summers ago when you thought you knew who you were, then, but now, knowing that you didn’t really, maybe, kind of sort of. The building and all of its pretty contents sleep. The outdoors and all of its compartments and conjunctions and pretty punctuation, sleeps. It is about coming home and twirling your ankles with worn out socks on that you only purchased a month ago, but it felt like a minute, no? About stretching and unwinding all of your limbs in a room that you’ve returned to after a while, and putting this on, and putting your mind on, setting it to a dial that doesn’t exist until you say, and completely... letting things come to you instead of looking at paintings and putting ear buds into your ears and hearing that music thing and shaking those tambourine objects. I think it’s about feeling your socks for the first time, on your feet, instead of them just being apart of your feet, ‘cause they aren’t, and won’t be. They are on you. It’s about the tendons in your legs tittering, and they never have, ever, to your lovely recollection. The ice cream sundae cups with wooden sticks in weird shapes, as spoons, slippery, and never, ever, never getting a splinter in your tongue. Thanks. Numbers, numbers, numbers. Words, things, funny things, and voices. Light a cigarette, do what it is that you do, take off your socks, regardless, warm them, and then just...
Thank you again, Warren, keep it up.

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