My Childhood, in a Shakily Recorded Nutshell

Language is the mother of thought, not its handmaiden.

These days, I consider myself lucky if I am able to maintain a sleep-schedule consisting of two nights of slumber per week. If PBS released a miniseries based on the present state of my life, it would be called (in Allison Foley's words) "Three Months, No Bed". The dark, scurrying creatures that I tend to see out of the corners of my eyes when I have missed a night of rest are now in my line of vision at all times, even when my sleep-deficit manages to reach something reminiscent of a lull. Adorn one of the aforementioned beings with a Noh mask and, well, you would quite possibly end up with this:



The trivial aspects of my life have acquired a novel significance. I don't know if that has anything to do with a general lack of sleep. I'd like to think that the two are somehow related; I really need to unearth a reason to justify my refusal to go to bed, as I must continue to do so in order to survive this semester. I have been gleaning mirth from simple things, such as the notion that I can watch "Stripes" online, for free, over and over again, until I pass out.

kryhe

I've got a poem to write

I think it would be very interesting if someone attempted to build a Francis Picabia-centric theme park.

I've decided to abandon my children's book illustration aspirations of time past. The notion of surrendering elements such as, I don't know...gristle (gore?) along with the utilization of metaphor in order to comply with industry standards just plain sucks. I don't mean to say that the children's book industry is completely barren of such elements...it just seems that, in a college atmosphere, illustrators are encouraged to discard the desire to toy with the complexities that are commonly associated with images that are intended for older audiences. Gah...it is absurd to think that my abilities are being stunted by the market of work that I have, up until now, been pursuing. How could working within a specific field assign such limiting parameters to my work, to the point where the fear of being defined (or whatever) is able to wrap itself around my ankles? I guess I'm just searching for a comfortable place. It would be nice to create images without being troubled by the censorship that governs the content of picture books for children.

I really waste my free time.

a holiday of perspiration

#54: With a very strong light, one can make the world disappear. Before weak eyes it will become solid; before still weaker eyes, it will acquire fists; and to eyes yet weaker, it will be embarrassed and punch the face of anyone who dares to look at it.

I'm not sure if I like that translation.

I have been awake since Saturday morning. I feel like I am sinking into a fissure populated by the carcasses of ancient coelacanths, armored with automated mandibles that refuse to stifle their snapping.

oh and one more thing

I stumbled across these photos. I took them for the Experimental Costume and Performance Class two years ago.