Dear Terras



   It takes intelligence, baby.  You used it on us, the two rebels that worked at 149 books.  We were mad, bad, and out of control, riding on a road to ruin.  We weren't about to take no kinda shit from some uppity gallery bitches.   But the way you looked at us, we're not fools.  You used the eye language.  You used to look at us like you were undressing us with your eyes.  That's okay we're used to feeling naked, letting our big, dripping feelings just hang there in the wind, showing them to the world.     

   You are a man of many tongues (that's why we like you).  We are not talking about your mother tongue, that fucked up language we call French.  No!  We are talking about a language that just some of us speak, a language more complex than even Chinese or Finnish.  The universal language known to few, but spoken by many in the arts.  The tongue that Christians talk when they are speaking in tongues, when they are closer than ever to our boy, Jesus.  When they don't know what the fuck they are saying, but they mean it, man.  The words you use when you are shy.  You used it again, when we were all dancing.  The tongue worked. The stupid tongue you use when you are trying to mingle with fools.  Fools like us.  We're not afraid to cry or play the crying game.

   We can play games too, so let's talk turkey.  No games this time.  We made this logo.  It is for you.  We made it for you.  $300.00 and a show in your gallery.  No bullshit, Just the truth, the facts.


Inna gadda da vida baby,





p.s.:  Please respond immediately. Truth be told, we don't have long to live.