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  • Keith Hennessy's Turbulence started with 5 dixie cups of red wine.

    Little did I know that the stretching figures on the floor would mutate the room into a post-queer disaster zone.

    They did a lot of crazy shit. Like this group of naked girls on the floor jiggling and speaking in tongues. The MC shouted "Sometimes, we can't understand women when they're talking".

    There was a potbellied black guy with a great affect. His name is Jupiter Knows. He's a crazy clowny dude. Look him up.

    Someone said that two guys fed each other donuts and then started offering them to the audience. "There are only two left and you're going to have to fight over them". Then they threw the donuts at the people sitting there.

    What the fuck.

    The show gyrated in and out of sync with the sprawling sounds of a modest-looking composer who crouched in the middle of the arena. His fingers jiggled and tapped a mound of equipment I would never understand.

    So at this point in the show, I had convinced myself that nothing was solid or fixed in the world, and I might as well go ahead and do whatever I could to maximize the experience. Why not shed my cotton shackles and affirm myself in it? That was the greatest slip'n'slide ever.

    According to Hennessy, a self-aware dilettante, the whole thing was about the economy, which is basically a bunch of fragile structures doomed to crumble.(1)

    I keep forgetting to tell people it happened.

    It was a post-queer disaster zone and I ate it up with a spoon.


    (1) Hennessy cites a cool passage from Benjamin on his blog:

    “A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such a violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress,” - Walter Benjamin.
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