g u a r a n t e e d * f r e s h
last update : 03 . 03 . 98
Sup duns, I didn't think i'd ever be dropping science up here on the page,
but I am. In between rocking married couples, busting windmills, dishin out flare scratches,
and taking out sucker mc's i've squeezed in some time to put in my 2 cents
into the page. We're finally getting shit down on lock here at ICF HQ and
giving you whatcha need. No it aint pussy, its close though... More
fucking graf. Straight from your neighborhood watch-chums at I Can Fly.
Yes indeed dun, spots have gotten rocked like Madison Square Garden
after a Kiss concert. And we're gonna present you the whole nine like a
bakers dozen minus ten times three. Yeah..who said I nver dropped
mathamatics?!? What! What!
Anywaiz, i've totally revamped the Graffiti Art section of the page. There
are 7 new catagories added to the previous 3, including trains, animals, and
girls (who needs more in life?).. Aside from that, there are writers' work
now included that have been part of the ICF conspiricy for years but who's
work has been slept on in the homepage. Go grab a nice col' chillin glass
of grape tang and peep the butter.
NZ-One
ICF
NEW Graffiti Art section
Words from Jugz...
It's been years and years, my friends. This enterprise has seen turmoil,
immaturity, and rebirth. From Chelsea rooftops to Paris gardens, and down
through the pavement to the sewers. Which is to say that we've seen that
which is above and that which is below and can't decide where we belong.
For almost six years I Can Fly has sought the impossible: the intangibly
real. The experience which is so luminous, so unexplainable, that it
bursts the barriers and breaks down the doors. Some of the thousands of
artists (read: bums, philosophers, strippers, reporters, drug addicts,
writers and whores) we have met have confused our goal, and called it
"freedom". Like the answer was just as simple as jumping a fence. We
thought this over, in our delerium and terror. In nights on the roof of
Riverside Church, clinging to the radio tower and screaming at the wind.
In quieter Irish days on St. Stephen's Green, with lovers and
a breeze. In the hysteria and conquests of the Moorish cities of Spain,
and drunken frenzies through California, over the Pacific, and through the
dry sands west of Melbourne. Over mountain tops in the Alps, through seedy
clubs in Chicago and seedier bars in Brooklyn. Through breakdowns in the
Hamptons, abortions on the East Side, and drownings off the coast of
France. Through little deaths and breakups, boxcars and bankrupcies.
Through failures and moments of small grace.
Then one night, in turbulence on another plane somewhere over Montana, or
Wyoming, we realized they were half right. The answer is jumping over a
fence, so long as you never land on the other side. Are you closer?
Jugz
Nearing the End
Columbia University
NYC
Postscript: Late one night at the end of February I happened to be leafing
through two books, both English translations. The first was "Cassandra",
by the East German author Christa Wolf. In it, I found the following
sentance: "The last thing in my life will be a picture, not a
word. Words die before pictures." Later, I was reading a volume by Jorge
Luis Borges. About to close the book, I
happened to glance
at a line just beneath my thumb: "In my opinion, such a conclusion is
inadmissible. 'When the end draws near,' wrote Cartaphilus, 'there no
longer remain any remembered images; only words remain.'" Don't mistake me
friends, I'm not asking you to choose. It should be obvious enough to all
of us that they are both correct and talking about the life we lead. That
the conversation spanned two works, both excerpted out of context, is no
matter. That the confluence occured is enough for now. Remember the
words and the pictures. Pray you see enough of both.
Site Update Information 01/98
ICF Rocks in the New Year!
The Virtual Lounge
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