- monkeybottom collaborative
- Durham, NC
- located at 609 trent drive in the historic wild bull's pizza building, MoBo is home to two artists: joe galas and dianne freund. we host a variety of events: these are usually updated on our FB page. We are happy to share our space with others who wish to host their own events, public or private: see info below and please contact us for this. on FB: address below.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
(please see "thanks for playing" posted feb 24 for info)
windmills hunkered in the field, bigger than i'd imagined. modern, utilitarian, obviously man-made: not wooden, creaky or romantic. there were many; i didn't count; one windmill won't make much energy so the whole field was planted with them. one could imagine a NIMBY situation, not one where folks were clamoring to have one in their fields. that's how that goes: the imagination is not close to the reality; it attaches meaning and dream and a story where there is a big noisy metallic hulking thing. now that is the past, and has once again entered the realm of fantasy. in truth, unless i'm referencing something that is now, right now, i'm verging on fantasy. i can tell you: the television is on mute; the american version of "the office" is playing; my husband reads "the new yorker" with his glasses on in low light, reflecting off the ceramic mug his forehead and arms. the cat, past middle age, clunks heavily down the stairs sounding like a child dragging a toy behind her.
legs only last so long: the joints are complicated, like the windmill parts they wear out, the tendons dry and strain, crack and tear and wither; the fluid gels, leaks, forms crystals; the space compresses and is not enough space to move bones through without grinding. those windmills will stop working smoothly after awhile: they will require repairs: oiling? resurfacing? screws will work loose, or the threads will rust together and disable adjustments. sitting in the field, uselessly spinning or not spinning, no energy being generated. waiting for dismemberment. a leg weighs about twenty pounds. a moose weighs about three hundred pounds full grown i'd guess, its legs comparatively smaller than ours, stalky almost spindly; again i speak about something i don't know. i doubt i've ever seen a moose: everything i read, everything i hear or do is all mixed together. i'm uncertain of it. it can't be trusted. in truth, the truth right here now: again the light, the magazine, the television, its images, the cup, the tea, the little swallowing noise.