The lawn is a device, and so is the chair. Let it be so that we can sit, our bodies manifolding. SQUEAKING—THE CHAIR SQUEAKS Let it be so that we can enjoy the air, the crisp sun, the thing of a lawn chair, a plastic something against our backs and our butts. SQUEAKING—THE CHAIR SQUEAKS That is democracy. That is the world. Sitting.

God, there were tears when I was kicked back on the lawn chair. My dad would tell me the truth. Little ants cascading down my shoulder, or the wet dew slinging against the grass. “IT SEEMS TO BE EVERYWHERE: INSIDE A STOREROOM IN FLORIDA, OUTSIDE THE URUGUAY PAVILION AT THE VENICE BIENNALE, AND ON A BOAT ON THE ZAMBEZI RIVER IN ZAMBIA, TO MENTION JUST A FEW OF THE PLACES THE CHAIR HAS BEEN SPOTTED, ACCORDING TO THE PLASTIC CHAIR WORLD MAP. NO ONE KNOWS HOW MANY EXIST IN THEIR DIFFERENT VERSIONS OR EVEN WHO THE ORIGINAL DESIGNER IS, BUT THEY CLEARLY NUMBER IN THE MILLIONS.” IT IS IN MY THROAT. I want to be a kid again. I want to be a kid again. I can see the public pool for miles in my head.

We just went for it. The chair.