Finger Puppets Suffering Under My Gaze
New York City — Spring 2001
Saintliness is not my goal. My point of departure is the world itself. Tragedy is a joyous moment for some but I marvel at these nocturnal mysteries, projected like a shadow, finger puppets suffering under my gaze. Perhaps I am amused. Perhaps in order to break the monotony I should retain only the impression I find in my memory.
I am no longer anything. Merely a pretext. Speak softly and they’ll call you unsociable. Speak loudly and they’ll accuse you of being angry.
Inevitably, it all comes down to barriers. Some will erect stone walls while others will prefer the picket fence. These barriers are not erected to keep those we don’t want getting too close away from us, to allow us to think we are protecting ourselves. All the while the intruders are within.