I have seen the palm trees and the sunset, I have walked into the house and felt that suddenly I was no longer the same person. Now, you will say hello to me twice and I will look at you two times.
Art as backwash or the foamy water of a corporate fountain
Art as a luxury vibrator near a couch
Art as a placeholder for a sunset, a walk, or a getaway
Art as a point of sale
Art as a bandaid for a hole in the wall, or intellect
Art as a way of saying something happened here. Something lives. Something is finished...
There is really nothing more to say when we come back to that beginning of all beginnings that is nothing at all. Only when you begin to lose that Alpha and Omega do you want to start to talk and to write, and then there is no end to it, words, words, words. At best and most they are perhaps in memoriam, evocations, conjurations, incantations, emanations, shimmering, iridescent flares in the sky of darkness, a just still feasible tact, indiscretions, perhaps forgivable….
City lights at night, from the air, receding, like these words, atoms each containing its own world and every other world. Each a fuse to set you off….
If I could turn you on, if I could drive you out of your wretched mind, If I could tell you I would let you know.