spain as she is on mars
i’ve got a cluttered closet of a mind. but fuck am i trying. to finish a thought. to get it out.
hundreds of half-harvested projects and pieces and plans and empires made of sand. inevitably built too close to the shore.
this is a collection of paintings i did back in michigan.
fall was coming. leaves were turning. and i was dreaming almost nightly of salvador dali. and of spain. only it was a spain situated on mars.
anybop! i got really high, took an adderall, and went to work for 48 hours straight.
(* i need at least one over-nighter a month burning that midnight-turned-am oil to feel grounded, challenged, and looked after.)
there i am — chockfull of uppers and downers — putting on all these terrible spanish accents, seducing myself over cheap tempranillo. i play the girl parts, the boy parts, the inanimate object parts. and, of course, a bull named dik.
i don’t believe in ‘natural.’ nothing is natural. everything is nature. so all my work is digitally enhanced. i guess my style is dream pop. ya know — the electric aftermath of a fire trying to keep lit. some small attempt to capture and reveal the world as i see it — in all her full luminescent glory.
‘where to unicorn?’ says dali.
someplace astral. i’ve got shmeckels to burn on a momentary forgoing of geography. i’ll take catharsis where i can get it.
the plight of the artist is the privilege to starve. it is my right to go to the golden gilded gutter.
to claim the profundis proteins promised in the uddered milks of those conjuring riches from the dust.
maybe i can paint myself clean.
or maybe i can just paint.
