— Screw it. I dig up this saved draft, this language from some months ago I’d been reticent to share but now it’s wrapping its arms around a sleepless night and my travel bug, that escapist impulse to jump in a car, on a plane, a train, a boat, anything. It’s just got to be said. So, here. It’s October. All that really needs to escape is that toxic tendency toward self-censorship. —
Writing is still elusive. Writing involves so many organizational challenges I often can’t handle it without also making visual art. Words have felt like pressure cookers, images like rivers. It’s said that words are limited and inadequate – but which mode of expression isn’t?
Which is why writing, too, sometimes happens by surprise in the midst of creating art, out of a sudden desperation or exasperation that just can’t be expressed immediately enough without switching mediums and turning to words. Out of recognition that there’s things that pictures just can’t do, can’t show the same way.
Then there’s the times none of it seems to satisfy. The moment’s too raw so the only thing to do is keep going. With the current project, with any project. It might make you feel better, or just more like crap but you don’t stop. I feel strangely serene now in the face of intensity. Its presence doesn’t scare me as it once did. As if my brain partitioned into two coexisting sides of reality, dark and peaceful.
I imagine some of the reactions and opinions each piece could incite and retrain myself to believe the one truth I can count on which is that it really doesn’t matter anymore, it matters less and less.
Mixing beige paint in my room and laying it over black I contemplate my favorite person to be with. Wanting this man is futile. Will you leave once again and call me months from now, and what will I say then? No more? I love you?
An inescapable fact, love. Even the worst of you could not make me cold for long. I want out of here, too. Out of all of it. It’s the middle of the night.
I toss this whole situation into question. My job, my expensive life here in Oakland. What am I doing?
This art. These photographs. This writing. How much could I sacrifice to be able to do this all the time, nothing but this for as long as it takes? Almost everything, I’m thinking.
What if I just said, everything? What would everything look like?