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Some say I was born in a mad photocopier's explosive suicide 'round about The Year of Our Lady, Nineteen Hundred an' Eighty, yeah -- mismatched splats of toner, TONER upon pages of white, blue, orange, 8.5 by 11 and 11 by 17. I was born into this world in a fugue, kneeling, hot air caught balloon-like between my leaves...
Others? Others say a mad librarian in old Alexandria collaged me together from swathes of old books buckled away in a cabinet for rebinding, one night. Drunk on sweet wines she stumbled amid the filing cabinets of Olde Aegypt, pulling piles out and dumping them on the floor; she found a knife and paste, began to make me. I collage myself anew each day, old newspapers, comic books, copies of Calvino's "Invisible Cities" stitched together with unexpected attention to detail.
One man in Barcelona claims Andy Warhol crafted me in a bet with Roy Lichenstein.
Once upon a time I was a tree, maybe, but I've lost all of my rings. To console myself for this loss I make due sleeping in an old three-ring binder ("Like the circus," you giggle!) and dream of some lonesome ink come my way to dance. |
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