A domestic exercise of the democratic process as curatorial practice

Blinds drawn, a silver puff of opium smoke obscures intermittent white noise from broken static emitted by a massive equipment shutdown. The minions so scrubbed-faced do scramble, an ad hoc exodus that violates celestial hierarchy. Ghosts of disarmed MIGs do fly by as a matter of encounter versus displacement.

Unbeknownst to him, though, Tony Randall materializes speaking in tongues, his long wizened whiskers trailing behind entangled tumbleweed. A pair of slanted eyes, prosthetically applied, smiles an effeminate yellow face at Sybil whose seven faces alternate between Pan, half-man, half-goat and the Abominable Snowman. Meanwhile, Medusa awaits for Apollonius to arrive but his flight is delayed by great flying serpents in the sky. Where is the egress?

But the air suddenly clears and history repeats itself, fondly recalling kinships lost, ideas milked and theories impossibly collided. The lack of preparation fuels a stream-of-consciousness, wildly extrapolating anecdote as legitimate artform. Hench, a day in the life of over three thousand miles of undetected crime compressed as Powerpoint wears many hats in a parallel universe.

The performance per se is quite performative though snickers can be heard above bored snores. Truer words may never be spoken.