Myoung Ho Lee, Tree # 10, Archival Ink-jet print on paper, 25x20cm, 2006
I've got about a dozen half-written posts about eating things, about desire as a muscle, about internalized literary logic, but all I have right now is nothing but a ocean-wave-like drone in my ears and the soft buzz of a glass of wine (or two). and I am sitting here, letting the autopilot of my hands take over, feeling the vertigo of words that come out that I may not control, mind retching stomach hurling tongue flaying in an altogether grotesque vomiting action. here it is. (points.) look at it. it is an allover painting.
there are a lot of people at home and while I do want to be friendly I miss the comfort of comfort, of me hugging myself on the train, I miss the lullaby of train tracks and the self-propelled desire and the arbitrary-ness of footsteps that I control.
Today it drizzled as I biked home, over the Brooklyn Bridge, stopped and walked my bike to let a parade of balloon-waving, chanting kids pass by, met someone I knew on the bridge, passed by. Yesterday on my way to work I bump into the scene of a music video, four guys in suits rocking out in front of a white screen, and it reminds me of the photographs of Myoung Ho Lee, strange displacement. Together this all makes me feel like I am in some sort of steadycam shot, where all so much action happens around the peripheries, the rich detail of everything-else so luscious and tastefully detailed, and in the midst of this all is just me, and my self, and my thoughts and feelings, and I navigate through this sequence, vignetted, very unaware.
Sometimes I look over drafts of various emails I haven't sent, for one reason or another, and I always like it when I fall asleep while writing them, because my face presses against the keyboard, and what ensues is a torrent of single letters which is my sleep, documented, sublimated into writing.
Here's an excerpt: