sumgirl

Ok, who wants to take me over their knee and spank me for extremely idle journal entry action? I would like to claim the "I've been so busy" line, but it sounds terribly lame...

I found an old notebook the other day, its pages marked with words, notes, drawings, paintings it was filled with extracts paper clipped in, collages and sketches, passages from fiction and theory. With Kafka, Asimov, Freud, Picon, Lacan, Foucault, Parvalesco. As I looked at entire transcripts and all the scribbled words, I realized that the notebook was mine.

Extremely strange how there can be such inherent meaning found, contemplated and consumed, only to be bound to the accomplishment of sitting in an elapsed notebook. Then, almost as if on cue, these words that I had written reasserted their meaning and I remembered them.

I turned to the back of the notebook (it was only half full) and out fell a picture of Artaud. A folded, faded photocopy

How hard it is to look when everything encourages us to sleep

ps: this was for maxx, that little cutie patootie.