My name is it. I get stuck in it, dragged through it.

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We are told that he who slings it loses ground, and never to throw it: you can miss the target but your hands will remain dirty, and life is made of marble and it and that we sit in it and reach for the stars.

 

We make flaps for it, rooms for it, pies of it. We play in it, wrestle in it, bathe in it.

 

Pigs roll in it to cool off.

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-Mudslinger

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a performance with Stable Gallery at Other Places Art Fair, Feb 2018