Oil and Acrylic on Canvas, 60 cm x 50 cm.
Oil and Acrylic on Canvas, 60 cm x 50 cm.
This year I’m trying to think consciously, and to make what’s within me a reality: say this to yourself, and feel the breath of air as it buzzes your matter.
Models wear away, emptying out so you can fill yourself with the shapes that you glance at: the spheres in common spaces, the clusters of fallen leaves.
When you are fully here, fancying in automatic language, with its unintended ways, you go from sentences to descriptions: your mouth confesses your madness, in anecdotes, and phrases formed from letters glimpsed on the sides of passing trucks.
If you sit with your distractions – from infiltration to infection – you will be weeping moths at your core.
Because you cannot make film from your glop, start as if it is exemplary to fail the oracle of your psychosis so that you blur the conditions of your receptivity, displayed on the walls as you think here, thinking your projections through audio, in spotlights, having hidden all of the orbs behind your walls.
And finding here whatever screens, whatever arms, reckon them up during any of the interjections, without being in them, without doing them, just giving normally here, and specially taking from whatever you should not have done.
And again whenever you guess that your interest holds off, just break it back to your treatment and your therapy, if you refuse here, not looking anywhere, not smelling anything, just maybe caring, and crying at exposure to entities being randomly unpredictable.
Now – as you are here once again, leaving the process of your distress to understand this or that emblem, this hearing of your flux – to apologize fits, and you know life, as they say, through your practice, possessing your existence and the future of your presumptions, and seeing human reality itself troubling the hive-mind of futurity.
And rather than wonder systematically about your symptoms, hear what’s in the words and give one sentiment to the next, hurling each system as it dreams in your questions.
Winging it and withstanding, you pick the library, while the machines get capital. As you stare at them, without thinking of them, picture yourself at an institution (any institution). Now drop your prior learning and the gestures of your work(or any other)space in order to get going. Feel yourself within this space: consider the experience and hold onto it – you may openly fondle it if you feel like it.
Look down on this grand metropolis, finding in it an artistic and comfortable development of which you are not ashamed. Your art is emerging slowly, doing the finance before the displays. Not staying to advance your conformity in any way, but needing to, as the noises pass in and out of your sector, listen to the constructions, the gas passing into the rain and the cold calls.
Then, believing your trappings, cry out on this solo evening of your work. For your friends are running out of levels, and on each floor they are leaving, removing the clips, taking your projections which look a bit smaller in the smoke from the pyrotechnics (the native drums are programmed in sync with each flash).
Now come the notes and, following, the visitors. The staff mention the barriers, hesitantly – and they are heard, but distantly. The visitors walk around the project – the sides of the space are folding in here and confusing there: just confessing this brings change for you to wake and shine.
The same goes for structures and so on. Regard the furniture, or the functions that a kitchen might perform for you. Working with it without shuddering, or it taking hold, opens people to propositions.
As the hour leans forward, you put yourself in the way of information for operating the power, giving yourself a whole point by thinking in this case, in this form for giving bottle to yourself. And as you begin in the marketplace mention the force of this system to speak to the opposing methods of your learning.
Now write to yourself from the little home of satisfactory works. As your senses clear, build the interests that you are scattering, and share the chemical of your way – it keeps your baubles and it feeds your gas: you are not entertaining the containers in any way, or appreciating them, but understanding them and the wires that go with the propositions.
Producing the baubles deep down in your gas explains the correspondence – it was a waste of the danger which sped between your lines on the information.
But you are rightfully here, in validated stacks, with autobiographical notes, not hoping to make any interest, but being with your basis, making critical attempts to perfect understanding and earlier ideas – because they are needed, one following after the other, in a complete work and expression.