That My place is minimal, almost squalid. I own 3 towels, 4 pillows and 2 comforters. People come to my place and think I live in poverty. I see it as wealth. I don't want things. I want me and to have all that is of worth contained in the vessel of my self.
That the moon comes in my skylight at a cetain time every night that I keep track of. Sometimes I think it is there alone at night and it's just the barber shop light hitting the wall on a painting.
That I destroy or throw most of my art on the street, except for the heavy ones. That my torture of not creating and the certainty of any success I would have at creating is buried so deep in my subconscious that it's the furthest from my thoughts, while I know consciously that I am Whitney material and am wasting an essence of talent so sharp and nature born as well as so fantastically shaped by experience that it kills me in my waking experience and I don't even know it.
SO you know that I'm ending this entry with a total cliche that may make you forget everything I just said? OH - I deleted it.
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This wallowing blog entry was brought to you by several suspicious cocktails at a tranny bar.
Do you hear that? Do you know what that is? It's the world smallest violin playing!
1 comment:
"I just to myself what people think about me is whatever".
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