residual vibration
ephemera
The leftovers — thoughts, observations, and half-ideas that don't belong in the ledger but won't leave me alone. Fragments, not a feed.
The Stage.
I've been here before The portal, the stage The amplifier of ambition Emotion and rage
The place where the performance, the face Is the matrix Where the message is the Waitress Where connection occurs And nothing is Wasted.
Words.
Words. What are they anyway? Form, structure, significance … Used for everything, including pray, And Descriptions of diligence? So they say …
I can declare, with those words, How you've changed my life, How you've set me free from a lot of hell and strife…
The Watchman
I looked for him; He didn't find me.
The watchman; His gracious bounty. Playing tricks on me, On us, on you "The morning comes" He yields, with dew.
The watchman said "the morning comes" — Zohar
after "Combustibles" by Ash Arder — the whitney biennial, nyc · july 4, 2026 · 1:07pm est
Buttah
Butter Her voice lands, Aretha ringing, Vibrations in the sand … Hometown, Motown, Slipping through the cracks of my hazy, shady, Lazy Sunday afternoon. In post-yogic buzz, Walked in to find Andy — A Polaroid, before android void. The Whitney, Dancing with somebody, Biennial celebrating, mostly Shoddy. Arder's chocolate treat, Combustible. They ain't melting, though, Nor misbehaving, yo. Sitting pretty, Ash, That solar-powered, flowered Fridge. This was my Cadillac, Daddy's legacy lived, Reminds me of Mama and her Cherry-flavored ride. Art isn't always "Pretty." It isn't always "Tame." True Art is never "Expected" And never, ever to "Blame." What if it's to imagine yourself within, To place in your hands Something that has never been. Buttah. Just like buttah.
To learn more about Ash Arder, visit https://asharder.com