Exceptional Multi-Level Rain House
From time immemorial, traditional homes have been destroyed by the elements. Nature crushes shelters effortlessly. And we painfully rebuild our lives only to watch everything come crumbling down around us again, humiliated and alone. Why bother? Live in the rain. This affordable two-level rain home is just sheet after sheet of endless water. No gimmicks, no tricks. Aren’t you tired of water-stained ceilings and moldy walls? Then get rid of the walls and ceilings and live in this squall. Be calm. Be happy. You won’t be flooded out if you are already in the flood. Relax. Exhale. Your life can’t be washed away pitifully if your life is already the act of pitifully washing away. Sit down. Open your mouth. Drink. Let your home fill you the way you’ve always wanted to be filled. It’s affordable and there’s nothing you can do about it.
A factory floor that absorbs communities in a warm embrace
The internet revolution may have unraveled traditional business models, creating a virtual marketplace to reach boundless customers across great distances, but the factory floor itself has remained almost stubbornly static and traditional. Don’t worry, though: the sandstorm changes everything. The sandstorm is not a few lifeless slabs of concrete, but millions of dynamic granules acting in concert. It’s glorious and humbling. Imagine your life so perfect and free. The sandstorm is unpredictable but determined. The sandstorm strikes suddenly and without warning. The sandstorm cannot be stopped. The sandstorm is able to make anything, anytime, anywhere. Today, for one low price, your company can have no fixed position and exist in reality: the best of both worlds.
"A dark shape entered the town and wormed its way irreparably into my clothes, my hair, my children."
Have you ever seen a child build a sand castle? Who cries when the waves knock it down? This is foolish, but only because it is wrong. Waves don’t knock down sand castles; rather, sand castles invade the ocean, one spire at a time. If current trends continue, the ocean will eventually be entirely children’s sand castles. Stay ahead of the curve. Get your factory on the floor and start swimming in the new ocean. Let yourself be swallowed by the future, because with enough effort, the future will choke before we do.
• Fluid and Granular
• Dense and traversable
• Constant and Fleeting
This newly renovated office space is available in an exquisitely constructed modern tornado
Markets are cyclical. Let this fact become a basic part of your business model by running operations from inside winds churning at 200 mph. Need to get that portfolio from one department to another, pronto? No worries – just let yourself slide away into the unceasing current of force and debris. You and your briefs and reports will be ushered to your destination at speeds that can push a straw through a telephone pole, let alone a man up a ladder. And that’s what we’re talking about. Harness the power of holding nothing back. Blast through the infrastructure of yesteryear. Let go of ambition and just become the desired effect itself. You don’t have to want, you have to forget. Destruction is creation and you are destruction. Bodies are immaterial. Become the harbinger of a new day. Buy a piece of tomorrow. Own an office in a tornado.
HORDES OF MEN COMING TO MANSPLAIN YOU ABOUT BITCOIN. THE INFECTION CAN BE SPREAD FROM PERSON TO PERSON AND THERE IS NO CURE.
Next week I will become both a real estate agent and a meteorologist. Also, I’m hoping to fly off the handle.
See ya @ 97 Kenmare: Cameron and I will be selling split-level cold fronts in collapsing markets with no mortgage and no hope. Yay!
Breaking: 78 Lou Reeds killed in day of carnage as 8 bombs rip through Iraq
Eight bombs ripped through the Iraqi capital, Baghdad, killing at least 42 Lou Reeds and wounding dozens more, officials said. Further attacks, including a separate blast targeting rock icons in the northern city of Mosul, killed dozens more Lou Reeds across the country.
Seven of the blasts targeted districts filled with Lou Reeds over the course of half an hour, police said.
The most violent of those blasts occurred in the town of Nahrawan, south of the capital, where two back-to-back bombs exploded near a busy market, killing seven Lou Reeds and injuring 15 others.
Attacks in the northern Shaab and southern Abu Dshir neighborhoods killed six Lou Reeds each. Other explosions hit the neighborhoods of Mashtal, Baladiyat and Ur in eastern Baghdad and the northern Sab al-Bor and Hurriyah districts.
Six medical officials confirmed the Lou Reed casualty figures to AP. All spoke on condition of anonymity as they were not authorized to speak to the press about Lou Reed.
“I survived,” one lucky Lou Reed says, “because I still believe I’ve got something to say.”
"The Healing Center" by Catherine Lacey, recommended by The Atlas Review
Issue No. 75
“The Healing Center” by Catherine Lacey had a mystical effect on me when I read it for The Atlas Review’s first issue almost a year ago. Each new reading of this story is like entering a room full of brilliant lamps and baubles. Lacey is able to cleanly combine the banal with the epiphanic, leaving us with a detached sincerity. From this place of detachment, she pivots with ease between humor and pathos. The image of porridge cooked to soot on the stovetop, the unreconciled dialogue of heart as machine and metaphor, the “airplanes of soon” looming over relationships are moments so eidetic we might find in our own porridge eating and unreconciled dialogues a similar banality, a similar epiphany.
“The Healing Center” begins with the two women gazing into a single mirror. Sylvia, the other woman, is described as voluptuous and desirable; the narrator presumably does not posses these traits. Rather, she describes her body only once in the story as bland, manufactured: “the color pantyhose companies mean when they say nude.” While Sylvia inspires “earth-shaking want” in people, it is also presumed that the narrator does not. The story is at times a meditation on Sylvia’s dreamy abandon and at other times an admittance of the narrator’s ongoing failures to communicate with her own body, with doctors, with the one-foot-out-the-door Sylvia.
The two meet at an acupuncturist’s office, Sylvia the receptionist and the narrator as patient. This initial character dynamic brings a wealth of information to the story about the stability and control, both desired and denied.
In less than two pages, Lacey delivers in cool, laconic language the empty sounds of a household, the feedback loop of a relationship turned sour, and an understanding of the loneliness of being a female body. There are countless stories in which a couple may settle their scores and inevitably part ways, and this piece is no exception to that fact. However, the mind behind “The Healing Center” is so sharp, exacting, and pleasantly unusual, we come to experience the universally familiar as a charming, inconclusive mania.
Editor-in-Chief, The Atlas Review
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By Catherine Lacey
Recommended by The Atlas Review
Sylvia put her hands on her belly and she put her hands on her hips and she faced the mirror and she turned sideways to the mirror and she faced it again. I lowered my hands from my chest and put them on my hips too, and looked into the mirror at the opposite of Sylvia and at the opposite of me, at all the flesh and hair and shapes we were living in.
Why do we look like this? Sylvia asked, so I asked Sylvia, Why do we look like what? and Sylvia said, Like women? Why are we women?
I looked at Sylvia’s body in the mirror and I looked at my body in the mirror and I remembered that my skin is the color that pantyhose companies mean when they say nude and Sylvia’s skin is not that color. Sylvia is an ample woman and she is the right kind of ample-ness, by which I mean she has been strategically engineered by God or whatever to cause earth-shaking want in people, the kind of want that leads a person to stay up all night, hostage to desire.
I don’t know, Sylvia says. Never mind.
Sylvia was doing a lot of never minding back then, so much never minding that it became unclear if she minded anything anymore, or if she minded her own mind or even my mind, or anything that was mine. She’d spent the week cutting her bangs slanted and balancing grapes on her belly button and letting pots of porridge cook to soot on the stovetop.
That’s ok, I told her as the apartment filled with smoke, people become forgetful when they are happy or worried or thinking about the airplanes of soon and all you need to do is tell me which one you’re doing.
I already knew the answer, but I was the kind of person back then who sometimes asked people to say aloud what I already knew—it was obvious that Sylvia was thinking about the airplanes of soon and which one she’d be on and where it would go and what she might do when she got there.
I knew she’d do this from the first day she moved in, so it is true that I let myself break myself or, maybe, I let herself let myself break my self and by self I mean heart except I take issue with using that word that way, because I don’t think we have any reason to pile such a responsibility on that organ, the word of that organ. Everyone knows a heart is just responsible for filling a thing with blood, except it never fills love with blood because no one can do that because love comes when it wants and it leaves when it wants and it gets on an airplane and goes wherever it wants, and no one can ever ask love not to do that, because that is part of the risk of love, the worthwhile risk of it, that it will leave if it feels like leaving and that is the cost of it and it is worth it, worth it, worth it. This is the mantra of Sylvia and this is the way she is.
Yo. That’s not Peter Dinklage. That’s Art Hindle, the star of Cronenberg’s “The Brood.”
From 11/12 - 11/16, here’s what Cameron and I will be doing at Storefront for Art and Architecture:
"The Weathermen Turn Themselves In" charts a world where families are raised not in houses but hurricanes; where duplex apartments don’t sit on the street but pelt us from the sky; where finance companies operate not in skyscrapers but from the top floors of a tornado. "The Weathermen Turn Themselves In" finally asks the absurd question: what if architecture and weather switched positions? By reversing the natural world with our constructed environment, we examine not only the boundaries, limitations and correlations between the two – but also between that which we can control and that which we cannot. The afternoon forecast is a 90% chance of condo squalls, and we’re advised to stay inside the comfort of our storms. Now, quick: what is an umbrella.
(and all in this weird tiny mirror room that has walls which turn and open to the street)
My favorite part of moma trip yesterday? The payphone outside the bathroom said to dial *10 to receive “god’s blessings” — when I called, a recording prompted me to leave a message, asking that I be as detailed as possible regarding what I wanted the prayer warriors to pray for. I said my dog, though I don’t have one, and hung up, wondering if I’d done the right thing, then went to the Magritte exhibit.
From November 12 to 16, Cameron Blaylock and I will be stationed at The Storefront for Art and Architecture, endeavoring to engineer the details of an impossible world in an exhibit we’re calling “The Weather Men Turn Themselves In” — should be fun. You can come watch us work from 11 to 6 each day. More soon!