I feel as if I am balanced on a narrow ledge, suspended in that clarity of adrenaline that comes directly before a fall. Except I never fall. My eternity exists in the sweet precariousness of creativity.
Sometimes in my life I have felt like I have broken through something, exposing what is beneath. When I write it resembles a landslide. The words could be tumbling from my cramped, scribbling hand like rocks down a rugged hillside – and then all of a sudden it will hit. The stones stop tumbling and start sliding – straight, quickly and true, hurtling rapidly towards their eventual rest. In the visual arts it has happened to me as well, as the forced, forged form suddenly becomes inevitable. And in music, too – crafted art can unexpectedly give way to something else, something deeper.
Now I feel as if I have broken through a screen of some sort, like I have blasted through a projection scrim and revealed the blinding light beyond. And I am stuck in this light. I reached an apex and stayed there. The moment is sustained – extruded to infinity, spread out to cover all space and time. It is blinding, and sickeningly sweet. It is an eternity of impossibly sore wrists and unstoppable headaches. I am covered in paint and graphite. My hair is falling out.
- edited Sunday, January 14, 2007
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