January 2011
19 posts
The closest I’ve had to a personal theme...
Oedipus.
The original motherfucker.
Art is part of the survival instinct.
There’s a richness in color that makes poverty of the heart more profound, a depth in sound that floods the channels of thought that have run too shallow and a warmth in texture that shelters us from stagnancy’s chilling touch.
Temper, temper.
When I was small, blond and round a temper tantrum was a red-faced, stiff-legged, huffing fiasco of frustration and melodrama. I didn’t grow out of them. They metamorphosed, after a chrysalis period of the years in which I felt almost nothing, into a different creature all together. Less flashy, less fleeting. It has become that crushing embrace of tension in my chest, the knot in my throat,...
