Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Drawings and dreams, reminiscences and poems, journal entries, fragments, and notes: they could stop anywhere, anytime, and one fine day they will. In the meantime, I am preoccupied with the art of the moment — the sense of harmony and balance in things, their inherent tragedy, triumph, melody, and dance, and the feeling of passing through, of being adrift, of living the life of a dandelion wish. Along the way, maybe once every thousand years or so, I find a new way to say and to see. But the voice you hear is most certainly your own. Mine is an echo. And then, the abyss.
In the Forum: when the right to be wrong is all you have left.