Friday, 21 September 2012
In the corner was a pair of red boots. My apartment seemed to be taking on al the warmth and humanity of a wax museum. Somewhere between the boots of a long lost lover and the Timex watch of a dead friend, on some metaphysical surveyor's fragile, unworldly plumb line, as yet invisible and unintelligible to mortal man, lay the point of truth. Whose truth? It doesn't really matter.
To my weather beaten mind there were words, and when I find the right ones everything would be clear and a little disturbing. I had the feeling it was not the kind of thing you'd want to plug a hair dryer into.
I have alot of things to do. I feel a subtle sense of focus and control asserting itself. I need to keep calm now and think and act rationally.
I sit pondering the curious relationship between art and death, death and art.
I asked the young dancer how she liked her eggs in the morning. "Unfertilized." came her reply.