to my first lady, a parasite, a branch of 'life', a found mutation of her ideological project, a monument to her motto of 'living pretty'. perhaps in its parasitical form the fragment is a version more akin to the reality of her project of a nation of short-term memory and scarce resources. this aberration somehow travelled through the land –it travels with me. it travelled north of the tropics, where opulence is more elegant but by no means less INCorporated, less scrounging, less destructive.