“I remember waking up with her that first morning after I spent the night at her apartment and she said, “It’s a beautiful day here in Toronto and you’re with a nice Canadian girl.”

It was.

She was.

January 30, 1982 Finished”

I do not know how to stop my brain from thinking too many thoughts or thoughts that are too big.

I do not know where to post my thoughts on writing, art, shows, life. I think too quickly to write things down and the internet is big enough. Nothing I am saying is new and that’s ok unless I pin you down, make you pay, and strap you in to listen to me.

Isn’t it?

Obsessions. Brautigan? No, I don’t think so.

Sound, live, recorded; words, the meaning of, contextualisation, human endeavour, neuroscience.

Dilletantte always sounds like a woman in high heels clicking across my mind. No, spiking into soft brain.

Who said whimsy was indicative of naivete? Sentimentality. Earnestness. Po-face pretentiousness. Isn’t “erotica” a filthier word (is that even the right word?) because it pretends to be referencing beauty and “human desire” and form? Some sort of study, and therefore some sort of intelligence?

Words get in the way.

Words create space for you to find your own way.

The space between words sparks movement. Small. Seismic.

I am currently not so interested in arranging words in a literal way. I am having curious, scary fun with how far apart meaning can be stretched from form, function, and content, and in making Tesla sparks fly.