jesuits and concrete

The best conceptual art is not what you create but what you give away. It is the thing in the mind of an observer.

Who is my audience? You dirty bastards. The absolute other pieced together with certain faculties: Language, Empathy, Vision. This is all.

You should be kind to me, I could be Jesus. Jesus alright, I was risking it.
What? The guard asked visibly perturbed.
I come here often. Is there any way I could avoid this, I add.
Yes. Don't cross. Don't cross the border. This man hated me. Maybe it was the car or my shaved head or the newly smashed window or the fact that I didn't own the car or the items in my possession - a small case of clothing, a laptop computer, a video camera and a roster of names including photographs. I hadn't even cleaned the glass, a small piece of cardborad flapping with the drag. I stayed quiet on this point. The clean cropped body armored guard stood postured at my arrogance with a fierce stare, his female couterpart looking on. I had found the dark side of Canada, Dan-O would inform me later that night. Not such a bad thing except the knowledge that home was a long way off. Home is always a long way off. Home left a long time ago.
Take these and wait in there past the double doors, the guard added after some more posturing, and he was off. Shuffled through, passport and papers in hand, an hour later I was on the road and into the early winter woes of western Ontario.
I hit the bar in Hamilton just to hold some time and settle my nerves. My cock was pulsing from missing the girl and I thought maybe a brief respite from the stress of crossing would settle things down. I wouldn't reach my destination till the early hours anyway so the bar it was.
What'll you have.
Ramos Fizy.
A Wha?
Ramos Fizy. This was perhaps a bit off but this joint had the bar, the supply and the knowledge to handle it. Do you have flower water, any flower water and confection sugar.
The barkeep nods and I keep on. Cream, lemon, lime, egg white, Gin, soda water. Then we shake for 3 minutes. I'll shake it. Add the club after.
An hour later I pull to the roadside, jam a finger down and puke up half a days meals along with the drink over my fleshy tips. Out it come on the Canadian concrete. It was over and so was I. It was the egg whites I thought. Or the Gin. Or the ass pounding at the border. Or the combination. Always something. I noted the time and headed west again, following the long gone sun toward the deep glass chill of Huron and the warm bed of my baby.