Today it rained black. I am not convinced there will be a Spring. This time last year, we were worried about war with Iran, Islamic militants mowing down civilians in France, a stupid fucking American election, radiation seeping across the Pacific from Japan.
Yesterday, I rolled in the mud, it felt like the appropriate thing to do. I asked her what I should do. I opened myself to dialogue. I started a relationship with where I am, when I am.
When I think I’ve written a good sentence, I immediately feel like running away from it. Hiding from it. Why even bother to write in these times? Perhaps, this is a golden opportunity to remove the symbolic from my thoughts and return to direct experience? To unlearn language. To forget art, once and for all- for everything is art now. I’m living in a fantasy I once had. I asked for this.