"No Fun" by Brittany Brown
I tried to make a conceptual art film in a craft store where I just stand in the aisle like a singular-person party and I gently kick multicolored feather boas with my stolen platform sneakers.
The premise begins. I zoom in on the feathers, and you, watching, are supposed to wonder if they are real feathers or not. You admit, internally, that you have never really thought about it before and that it seems like an awful lot of birds to be stripped for something so arbitrary.
You, the audience, remember being at a party. Your friend's husband, who claimed to be an amateur ornithologist, was sitting nearby and you asked about his collection of bird books to engage him. He took the biggest one out and plopped it on your lap. You flipped through the book, genuinely interested, and took note of the wing patterns, the indescribable colors and the way the birds shapeshift when they sit.
You, watching, think to yourself, "How do birds even sleep?" A momentary distraction that I anticipated. I am relieved.
You look back at my performance art piece and conclude that these could not possibly be the same ilk of birds as the feather boas in the video. You feel safe again.
I plant my feet while you process this, the frame still zoomed in on the skeletal wing features. Not frightened anymore, you say out loud, "No, these are just novelty items for bachelorette parties!"
Everything goes back to normal. I zoom out and I finish the film by staring at my feet with the camera. I feel something drop out of my body into my underwear and I don't worry about it.
I keep walking around the store looking at rhinestones and baskets and I think about how
I can DIY those clear pants that Iggy Pop wore on stage in 1996.
"Maybe R.H. Sin Will Love You" by Brittany Brown
Do you ever walk into Lush and think, “You know what, I’m going to buy that $8 bath bomb for a day when I really deserve it,” and then that day never actually comes because you just keep quantifying your achievements against an $8 ball of shit made by a guy named “Geoff” which consists of ingredients you already have at home because one day when you weren’t as depressed you thought you’d make your own but that also never happened and now you have this glittery bath bomb just literally collecting dust from last Easter?
"Remember Spaceboy?" by Brittany Brown
I know you're designing movie sets now and you've lost weight and you're living in
Pasadena with a boy who takes you to South America. I see the pictures you post on
Instagram and you never use a filter and I think that's so radical. I'm sorry I never like
any of them even though you like every filtered picture I take of myself.
I wish you could come back just to leave me over and over because you made me write
the most perfectly sad poetry and I'll probably never be that good or that sad again.