Dear Susan Sontag,

Would you please read my books and make me famous? Actually I don’t want to be famous because then all these stupid who are very boring will stop me on the street and bother me already I hate the people who call me on the phone because I’m always having delusions. I now see that my delusions are more interesting than anything can happen to me in New York. Despite everyone saying New York is just the most fascinating city in the world. Except when Sylvére fucks me. I wish I knew how to speak English. Dear Susan Sontag, will you teach me how to speak English? For free, because, you understand, I’m an artist and artists by definition are people who never pay for anything even though they sell their shows out at $10,000 a painting before the show opens. All my artists friends were starving to death before they landed in their middle-class mothers’ wombs; they especially tell people they’re starving when they order $2.50 each beers at the Mudd Club. Poverty is one of the most repulsive aspects of human reality: more disgusting than all the artists who’re claiming they’re total scum are the half-artists the hypocrites the ACADEMICS who think it’s in to be poor. WHO WANT TO BE POOR, who despise the white silk napkins I got off my dead grandmother—she finally did something for me once in her life (death)—because those CRITICS don’t know what it’s like to have to tell men they’re wonderful for money, cause you’ve got to have money, for ten years. I hope this society goes to hell. I understand you’re very literate, Susan Sontag.
-- Kathy Acker, Great Expectations, 1989

When we got into bed I made fun of him for being old (25). He thought I was 18, told him to guess again and he sighed 21, fixed his hair and took of his underpants. I asked what he does and he said he is an actor. I left a note and snuck out and walked to Union Square. No, actually, I left a note and went to the bathroom and put on all of his expensive cologne and Chanel Pour Monsieur moisturizer and hair cream and then snuck out. I walked to Soho and I was wearing the t-shirt I made that says “I fucked Sontag”, and I walked over to Deitch Projects and threw a sledgehammer through the front window. I just found it on the street. It was sitting up against a fire hydrant – a golden hammer and a black metal head. On its side in red paint the name AMY was written in cursive.

-- Billy Cheer, OUR JOB IS TO QUIT, 2006
(Image by BoweryStudio)

No comments: