Skip to primary content

Friday | Jan 05 2003

It arrived Friday.
It attracts me.
It can be described in different ways, from different points of view.
It comes down to a question of freedom, of feeling or not feeling free.
It doesn’t work in reverse.
It has me happily excited but also a little frightened.
It is a continuous circuit.
It is a hook in the mouth.
It is a town along the way.
It is a place to tell the truth, no matter how ridiculous or humiliating.
It is a powerful indication that at this moment at least I’m not alone.
It has a lot of footnotes.
It is a giddy delicious feeling, a lovely sort of tension in one’s chest.
It is a lot more messy than I remembered.
It has a great raw quality that is so different from the glossy sheen of the suburbs.
It gives me a place to hide.
It is akin to covering one’s ears, or more to point, running in and out of the theater while the film is showing.
It is all I have.
It is a veiled attempt at creative/erotic synthesis.
It is also revolting.
It is by the French Surrealist poet Paul Eluard.
It is crossed out and scribbled over in black.
It is an escape, a withdrawal from reality.
It is compelling in its simplicity.
It is like hitting a wall.
It is simple, unself-conscious, and direct.
It is so huge.
It is phlegm-besotted.
It is ten times nicer when you slow it down.
It makes me think of Jonathan Borofsky, of how he numbers all of his pieces.
It is the first good news I’ve had in a long time.
It makes me love her—a sudden wave of feeling.
It is like water.
It haunts me.
It is the result of seeing something for the first time.
It means that I’m approaching the truth.
It originates in fear.
It seems a lot longer than it is.
It takes so little to destroy it.
It is something like death.
It must be stapled together.