Jib Kidder: Windowdipper

As a youth, I spent my college summer breaks at home in Michigan, working at Guitar Center in Southfield by day and storming M14 by night to get to Ann Arbor, where my friends at the University of Michigan smoked pot on their rooftops, watched strange films, worked at coffee shops and radio stations and led bold charges into late-night escapades with exhilarating regularity.

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Dream – 09/20/09

It was New Year’s Eve. I was spending it at home with my family, and it was almost midnight, but my mom was asking me if I would help her look for dessert contests, because she felt she had done a really good job with the cupcakes.

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The abandoned future at MOCAD

MOCAD opened a new show on Friday — two solo exhibitions by two Scandinavians that occupy the raw concrete gallery space (yes, we know it used to be an auto dealership) with an outstretching emptiness, blanched of color,  goverened by shape and movement, flickers of shadow and whiteness, mechanical noises and unpeopled silences.

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Dream – 9/6/09

I decided to move back to Wisconsin — to Green Bay — just weeks after moving to Michigan for love. The reason was apparently also for love, as I had learned that my friend Tim was moving to Green Bay and establishing a polyamorous love colony on a big river. I was halfway to Wisconsin by ferry when it occurred to me that the happily married Tim had in no way invited me to join his waterfront love squad. I thought maybe he would still want to be friends, anyway. I tried not to feel any regret for making this impulsive decision and leaving behind a known quantity — sweet, steady love in Michigan— for a completely left-field unknown. When I got to Green Bay, I found a reedy swamp, more an encampment than a town, made out of mud and sticks. I didn’t know anyone besides Tim and his wife, but a few people welcomed me with kisses on the mouth.

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