by: Taylor Napolsky
In which the local asexual kings and queens of the neighborhood (because they felt like royalty, and that’s what matters) open something like a Yeezy compound—if that was a brand they owned—and all get together to hang and record music, to paint and write poetry, to work on sculpture in the hopes of coming up, like Thomas Houseago, or like John Baldessari, and then after this extend a hand out to others trying to make it the same way they had been for the past however many years: investing time, hustling, chilling together, also watching films together, also watching the latest music videos that dropped, also watching the MTV Music Video Awards and the BET Awards and the BET Hip Hop Awards and the Tonys and the Grammys and the Oscars and the MTV Movie Awards and they try to think of something new, really new, and the Emmys and the trailers…the trailers for the new movies coming out—the most hyped and least hyped; the slept on and buzzed about; the most prestigious and the trashiest; the most trendy and the clowned on—and they soak all this in…they really do…and they combine it with the spirit, the spiritual—(the purple, calming darkness, beating, pulsating rhythmically like a heartbeat connected to a supercomputer that goes up to the cloud that connects to a hovering Unmanned Aerial Vehicle which gives everyone, everyone, for miles around internet at high speeds, the type of speeds so fast that you click and it loads, just a bit slower than in the blink of an eye, click and it loads)—or call it what you will, if not spiritual, call it an intersecting, or a bounce between them, from one person to the next to the next, but all of this so they can do something, maybe sublime, maybe dangerous, it’s hard to tell…with the light and the darkness: Evening them out. Making one not any better than the other. So light is the same as darkness, both are good; dark, dark purple, futuristic purple, futuristic shirts, old fashioned shirts, sweatpants, all of it in dark, deep purple, or in rose and a soft ash color. The asexual squad of royalty comes together, swelling and swelling, inviting one another, and thinking it through; every day considering…. Changing their shirts—ditching that color for a new color, ditching that scheme for a new one. Changing their minds, too; so everything they had come up with before, they wipe it all clean.