I have sad eyes. I look to the world with a preconceived sadness, adoringly brushing everything and everyone in my line of vision with a thick, sticky gaze of melancholy. Its all crap naturally.
'There's a divinity that shapes our ends,rough hew them how we will.'
At the time I didn't find that conclusion satisfying and to some extent i still don't because wasn't able to maintain that sense of understanding as to how such an indefatigable raging debate could surmount to any one understandable epiphany let alone one that was so clean and simple that it (gasp) would permit functionality and the decisiveness that, in Hamlet, follows. But i did once. For a few seconds something inside me seemed to vibrate at the perfectly right frequency of that moment centuries ago, connecting to receive a trickling wave of heat that filled me up with the rich, marbled, warmth of wordless comprehension. I wish there had been words and that I'd written them down that I could turn to later to scoop out and spread the salve of recomprehension and feel soothed.
I'm worried and slightly excited by the potential my life seems to present to me to, should I choose it, encase me in beautiful crystal coffin of repressed desires, impulses and words that would in their sterile, high pressured container grow and then be gathered and thrown pathetically to bounce futily off the smooth transparent sides to define a 21st century Emily Dickinson esque existence. I don't mean to flatter myself in the dropping of that name but it seemed to be appropriate for the point I'm trying to make. Art should never be a replacement for really living, for really experiencing and doing and being because then it becomes a sickness.
Please completely disregard any pretentious and juvenile statements I make no matter how boldly I run with them- actually the bolder they are there more important it is that you instantaneously forget that I've said or written or mimed them. You have to, or I'll scour my skin till I hit bone.
I am functional and I am hygienic and I'm off to subject a set of oil paints to my tirring mediocrity.
