I love the dumb buzzing of street lights illuminating nothing in the early morning, while most of the world is still asleep; the warm red electric pulses of distant radio towers glowing against the night sky; streams of cars speeding into the entrances of cities like colonies of ants; the midday chaos of city streets as the crooked lines of pedestrians sprawl in a dizzying euphoria of omnidirectional motion. The faults and the fantastic found in the blood and bone of another person, and loving them for it.
I'm a collage of unreconcilabe forms and forces who appreciates the beauties and banalities of everyday life, an oddly configured contraption chalk-full of irregularities and loose bindings, a recovering eccentric and maturing adult exploring the confines of an at least pseudo-normal life. A lot of my time is spent wondering whether it's more difficult to understand the arcane associations and dim but darkly portentious connections between quantum mechanics, mysticism, and western systems of thought; or the relationships with other people in my life. I can't say that I know very much. I have an affinity for the mystical, the dark, the blindingly bright, bold, boring and beautiful; -the young and the restless are similarly interesting. I'm afraid I've already seen multiple and occasionally overlapping versions of my life, love pool, non-objective art; and can say that I know of God. The Tractor Trailer is my nemesis. We don't have enough time here; too many signs and symbols, too many geometries of meaning, and the density of phenomena folding in space and time continues mulplying exponentially, violently exploding and imploding in a singularity of indefinitely proliferating variables and labyrinthine configurations beyond the comprehension of an even infinite consciousness. The velocity of the sign, as both the trajectory and speed of its movement transversing the networks of signification, as its violent exscription eroding the contours of its graphic manifestation, is too far along the ascent of its hyperbolic acceleration towards light-speed to be retracted by the gravity of indentity. This really has only a small relevence to even the few, and I could care less
Condensation is key here I'd suppose, but also the problem. The density and dispersion of the constellations of identity, the vast proliferation of experiences, its proteanism, and the quantitative multiplication of signs available for inscribing the self, makes self-description an impossible feat, and indefinite writing, rewriting, and erasing; something valuable for editors. I design, and appreciate design, visual and non-visual. I make things. I make non-things too. I love. I love loving. I love being loved. I read, walk, talk, look, and listen. I often walk in public by using the shoulders of passers-by as mobile platforms that I jump onto, skipping from this one to that one to get where I need to go. I enjoy short walks on beaches under cloudy skies, in-depth conversations that taper off into dizzying nonsense, lines that should not be crossed, and should be crossed even more for that reason, anteaters, and the experience of waking in the morning to remember that I have amnesia. I melt the snow in my backyard with my trusty flame-thrower, and created the notion of Truth.