In fact I should be writing something else. Something that will pay me money. Something that is due today. Something that is not all that hard to write. Except that when your not writing it, everything is impossible to write. And when this is as sophisticated as your thoughts get, then maybe it’s better for you not to be writing.
Oh, and RabbitRabbit
Yesterday I participated on a panel where all of the sculpture faculty tried to provide the rest of the program with some fundamental ideas for speaking about sculpture as a field. It met with mixed success I would say. In the attempt to have a multidiciplinary program (film, video, painting, sculpture, photography,writing, music) the idea is that people need to find a way to develop a common vocabulary, or at least have a conversance with the vocabularies of other fields. Afterward, we adjourned to the local house of our chair to eat sushi, hot dogs and seaweed salad until the fireflies come out. I petted and played with Lily, the six month old miniature poodle, until I became too embarrassed by her naked need for contact and slipped away to blab with the other humans, still aware of her sad black eyes fixed on me while she strained at the leash that tethered her to the fence.
Last night I was talking with Andy Warhol in a dream. Finally I wept, telling him “I’m so sorry that I never got to meet you” I had realized that I was asleep and he was dead. He said something vaguely reassuring and when I woke up I once again felt embarrassed this time for professing something in sleep that I scarcely believe in my waking life.