I come to the page without the work to drive the writing.  In its passive state, not in the fabrication process, I see… meticulousness.  Mimicking, as camouflage, and meticulousness that I barely perceive.  Like a bad therapy patient, I’m reluctant to admit that my life, and not just the art, is my creation.  But you can’t give a person that message.  I stare at the page like the lights up bright at the cocktail party, and shake my skull, listening.

I woke up at 4:00 in the morning and got to the coffee and admin, like it goes.  Muse adjusts my sleep clock like it’s none of my business.  This is time for absorption and interaction, out to the shows, out in the city, among the peoples.  Reload the questions.  See the art.  I am both eager to see The World and its art, and also I dread the twisting ache to be in the studio making, that churns in me in response to it.  Or the flashes of clarity that disperse like fog no matter how I try to capture them in drawings or writing or little watercolors or pnemenonic memory devices that never work as well as they do for the person who teaches them to you.

But that’s just the double-foil manifesting here.  the bitch of it.  that’s what Drawing of Vonnegut calls it.  the bitch of it, he says, just exactly like a person except for a) it’s my imagination and b) he’s imagined wire bent in the shape of Vonnegut’s ink-drawn self portraits, expanded to 3-D, a little bit wrong, the way it ought to be.

And how the present mercilessly overtakes the past, making the very idea of resetting the course a little absurd.  We are always on the course that we were never on before.  We make every single thing we think we see.  every little interpretation, cause here’s the sun outside same color as last October.

buck up, I tell myself, and hand myself the drawn shovel that my mind made the very first time I heard about praying for potatoes from the end of one.  But I won’t take it.  I’m either broken or being dramatic.  I have to conjure up the memory of Tami, and look across the room at the the ceramic cup that says, “When you’re going through Hell, keep going!”

I decide it’s a writing teacher, and the course, delivered in elegant charades, is about building a story.  I marvel at the Universe iterating from light to gasses to rocks to the extended version of Voodoo Chile, and stare at my mind.  It blinks back, knowing I set it up…

I tiptoe to the cabinets again.  gingerly I grasp the little silver handle, then I do nothing. until finally, later, I pull the door open

All the tricks of early photography, questions of how to re-present, with the stereovision and color, moving celluloid images, a fast shuffle of still images in readable sequences of change? With a separate and somewhat slower sound?