“This word community is a common currency right now in poetry blogs and certain bars. Community’s presence or absence, failure, responsibility, supportiveness, etc—everyone is hovering around this word. […] How much of this notion of community is an abstraction of the real texture of friendship, with all its complicated drives and expressions—erotic, conversational, culinary, all the bodily cultures concentrated in a twisty relation between finite, failing persons. When I try to think of what a friend is, I imagine these activities we pleasurably share with someone we love—grooming, reading, sleeping, sex perhaps but not necessarily, intellectual argument, the exchange of books, garments and kitchen implements, all these exchanges and interweavings that slowly transform to become an idea and then a culture. Or a culture first, a culture of friends, and then an idea. Or both simultaneously. Writing is an extension and expression of friendship. […] For me, the drive to talk, to be in a room with someone I want to laugh or dance or fight with, to feed, all of those things—this has more to do with how writing happens for me, and also how I receive others’ writing, than community does. I think my friends have become models and incentives for my relationships with books and writing. Certainly I primarily write to my friends and for them, seeking to please and delight them above all, and sometimes mysteriously and painfully falling out. But I don’t want to call this community. I want to preserve the dark body of friendship.” – Lisa Robertson for Poetry Foundation (http://goo.gl/0hB0E)
"When will I have enough black pants," I wonder every night before I fall asleep. Never probably. When I close my eyes it's as if I can draw really well and then when I open them I don't draw that much. This is something about myself I am committed to changing.
I think that "Arizona" is my favorite named thing; they got the sounds just right. But I wish it were a different place. Where I am now it rains sometimes but it also gets really warm. I remember walking and the sun being high and crossing the street both to get in and to get out, depending on the day. But we never completely turned our backs on the sun.
Some of us are blonde. Some of us have glasses. We are curious. We communicate occasionally, and by email. When that communication happens, it is the good kind. We are interested in communication, via words and otherwise. We are interested in stories, linear or not. Most of us, and I'm making an assumption here, like avocados. We used to go to this bar called the Parkside and drink PBRs together, instead of going to class. AKA, we are REBELS.
There are times when we feel we are not doing enough. But also when we do this it honestly sometimes feels like enough, and then we do a little bit more because we are addicted to things like "Arizona" and views and stories that start at the end and guides on how to be touched—and we know that there are others that feel the same way. Because we know that they’re desperate the same way we are desperate for these sorts of things to be more a part of our every day lives.
Names are what hold us when we talk about horses: Wabash, Douglas, Leonard, La Playa. Steady rocking, sets of two undoing syllabus far from 2008. That’s when 8th street had us. Moonscape parlor fountain gate & what our minds wanted. Three share a coast now. One of us stays a borough. Sister palace & shelving books. Deer neighbors & koi. We remember the sound brass makes when followed by water because we studied translations of place until sand & red glasses. Mixer Dolores palm. An annex came next. A launch and a nook. We are writing home to each other & learning how to make the gesture for gallop with correspondence, lecture, you.
factorycompany is about how this friendship makes you feel like everything you wanted to happen in the world is possible, because if you can't do something, one of the other friends can do it and so then it can get done. And getting things done is the whole point, which is why the title of our friendships is factorycompany, obviously. Productive friendships dot org. Something like that, and a lot more than that, and bravery. Everything truly productive is about bravery, so this is too.
We love getting emails from people we don't know. We love sending real mail. We are a factory, but not the kind with ill-paid workers, the kind that produces intangible products, AKA ideas. We are a company, but not the kind with casual Fridays, the kind with casual everydays. We are casual. We love you.
Welcome to this. This is this. This is the freedom of rowboats. This is also lemons and worn out sneakers and the red blood of beets and Sunday morning. This is Friday night. This is south-facing windows and wasabi and being brave enough for gardens. This is having fears and refusing to live as slaves to them. This is specialized ungulate feet for traveling long distances this is the succulent’s ability to hold water, their devices for self-protection, this is the double o in oolong tea. This is red-winged monsters this is the hearts in those monsters this is the hearts in children with messed up ponytails this is the hearts in you. This is not apologizing for being such. This is just and much more than this.
This is being too young to be called lady but appreciating being called lady because it’s old-fashioned. This is knowing that the only way to pay homage to tradition is to experiment bravely. This is writing letters to people who you love, even if you love them from afar and they don’t know who you are. Also this is friendship. Which is the word platelets. Which is the word furniture. Which is the word wonder. This is the need for expressing and exploding and exploring the legitimization of Heart – this is the bringing back. Not with irony. Not with apathy. But with the this inside of you. This curiosity. This jump off of the highest rock.
The social responsibility: not holding this back.
This is not-for-money-but-instead-for-lungs-work. The because-one-must-work. This is eating spinach and then singing a song about eating the spinach and the spinach falling out of your mouth while you’re singing and that’s funny. This is the discovery of what we have access to. This is writing stories because we have alphabets. Because we have words. Because we have sentences. This is leaving our shoes untied because we can.
This is asking you to act when you feel moved to say the compliment, to give the love letter, to sing along when your voice wants to but you’re nervous because of society. This is asking you to feel moved more. To wake up and feel moved more. And to feel moved by moving. And to move by being moved. This is not asking you to be cute like express yourself this is asking you to grow antlers. Not because you need them to be hard but because you want to move things with them. You want to change your landscape. Shake your head around, push the stagnant air. This is seeking to be bigger and asking you to be bigger. As big as the bigness of music. As big as the bigness of cow eyes. This is asking you to be ruthless in taking stock of the ways you do not become who you know you can at every moment. And after taking stock to do instead of try.
This is sunsets. This is the taking of the time for the sunsets. This is understanding that most animals feed at this time, that it’s an important time to pay attention. This invites paying attention. This invites invitation. This invites attempts. This wants you to leave insisting that you are the heart of you and also the heart of every other you who has been waiting this long to wait not another moment.
Factorycompany is a venue that invites our art making practices to coexist, or something like that. Factorycompany wants to anticipate the world newly, to re-make it together through practices of language that impel us each toward exercising agency. Factorycompany wants to put us back in it—and not worry about who 'us' or what 'it' is. Factorycompany seeks to make more room for making.