What I write about is not gratuitous — its hard won and fought for.
Not thru charity but truculence and the scrimmages —
Extort from Joyce’s pig latin — who explores language through permutations, visual cuts, dangling on a perch of hold time rhyme, taunt and flaunts of limerick.
Probe the “x” torsion between rhyme and language, as an oceanic.
Neg space draws itself in pissant for prod, pearly unfurly, and piratical. I have learned how to love it as I did it for love. If I say that to Ems or the Vincent it aligns, as beauty (and a ruthlessness) of truth.
Perseverance is heft hall a kind of delirium delinquency — where can let fly a balm able shop talk with the sky —
Not just for flying — but for landing as well ?
That said don’t discount val of money — I like making money. But only up to a point. It intimidates my “sovereignty?”
Even with my drawing studio, its not just about money but relationships and my freedom to diversify —
I love drawing nudes. Been playing pretty ferociously with color — ever since a kid.
Just did a strong print take on a trad/trend for Sunil’s Storyline project — And the money keeps flowing in from studio work —
And because of it, this is the thing: I never have to compromise the research — or any other “f kng dimension” in discuss with the dead, the living dead, or the newly arrived, when in fetch of breadth and catch on a latch, w.r.t. The Work -/
Let ride the rhyming sickness.
Let dig for cues moos and rim bow booze —
Let sylph and silt the philo silo —
Let birdy steal anything finds through falls in wells or tidal swells.
And if so climbs, teeter into rhymes.
Silliness is allowed by way of Beckett — how he pulls it in via questioning the folly of what he is doing — And looking around for clues as to why he is there. Creates archi techy thru questions —
I was drawn to letters — or rather they erupted as an odyssey of my soul. But also, it turned out I really like to draw. As a family matter, ended up with law degree like my dad. Then went into publishing because law was clever and conscientious, as opposed to sky fly (and put the egg on skillet and fry) fiction — which I was mad about.
Ended up living out my mom’s (working in fashion) dream (after meeting Sunil the Wonderful), became my own studio where I draw, designed look books, prints, underwear, bags, pajamas, Christmas costumes for dogs…
But from my earliest terrors, it occurred that I loved to bomb my brain and law gave me nightmares that I didn’t want. Books gave me freedom to think with the lids anywhere. Design gave me freedom to draw.
Started design studio doing grunt for dollars working in page design, then went on to manage a funky furniture store down in Soho and did the retail thing at another high end design store in Nolita, then went back to school for drawing: Art Students League, FIT, Botanical Gardens, etc. Drew all over my town. Met Sunil the wonderful at FIT — and went on to discover that with cash for focus could seriously illustrate.
I think of Emily Dickinson as my aunty em. White girl american brought up on religion, racism, getting an education and apple pie. War, freedom and horror.
Get thee to a none airy —
But I also love plasticine pig fig wig poems — am terribly influenced by Pynchon and Joyce. Joyce in a way really is “the godfather.”
I read all of JJs existing letters and Byrons, Burns too, Fitz and Zelda. Groucho, etc. I get sudo love suds, what are perhaps modern row mantic letters from death doth part heart alias tin pan alley.
A kind of mad hatness blew up in me from reading dictionaries like they were history books.
But in my soul, there was a war over meaning and the horror show. Stephen King’s colorful cities of hatred blew in, charted by ashes ashes.
Life seemed to demand that letters take a room — be a loom, weeping sweeping, keeping lockets alive in Dante’s tomb. To exfoliate the sadness tedious madness, as I lay frying plying sighing dying over slipperiness in language.
dance of the clues ruse
longs with affection —