I’m a coiled spring. The last threads on a rope, one drink too many, a bough ready to break.
I’m on the cusp everywhere.A month of toxic affrontary has rendered my nerves as sensitive as the wounded fingers of my hand.Its all just noise of course-I own nobodies myopic world view-nor can I change it. People will try and impose it none the less.
My tongue is swollen from my clenching teeth.I’ve long since lost my nose to the spite of my face, but I fall further down the cracks of my own oblique obscurity. And whilst my contemporaries become media darlings, I realize it’s petulance on my part,that I feel left behind. Meanwhile,ants invade my studio,like little black beads from a Dali painting, scattering in an ordered chaotic frenzy.It’s like my disposition manifest.
The work by comparison is cascading out of me like a rich, delicious waterfall. I’ve no notion where the forms are coming from.
It’s like my disposition manifest. And I’m feeling furious at the world-I need to stop reading crap.
The news here is a like a huge bloated worm feeding the bigotry, widening the chasm between truth and the myth of America.
I realise I’m saying this nine years post 9/11, but I wonder if I’ll ever feel truly at home here.