“It is very good advice to believe only what an artist does, rather than what he says about his work.” – David Hockney
Let’s agree not to argue. Let’s agree to that right away upfront. I have gone through life just trying not to get arrested.
I hear voices. Different voices from my different lives. Only way I can explain it. Some days the runner talks to me, some days the husband, some days the young man. Some days the asshole. These conversations become my thoughts. My thoughts I hear in phrases, phrases which I sometimes note.
I have short-term memory loss. I have long-term memory loss. My mind is fine but it’s like somebody dragged a magnet across my cranial harddrive.
Here’s one of those notes. I want to party. She wants to wear one of my so soft so old t-shirts, watch Law and Order and cuddle with me. So soft so old.
The absence of toys/is itself/a toy. Word.
Have an idea for the next three-dee cartoon , wait for it – Dogtown Abbey.
Don’t act like an idiot. Actual note. Actually, they’re all actual notes. Is that good or bad?
Regrets, I’ve had a few. Hundred. Those people who say they don’t, well, sweetpea, you didn’t try hard enough.
Far too onerous to be consumed visually. Don’t know who told me that. My luck’s been running good – found a stale Cheeto in my recliner.
Are you so naive? Do you really think everything works out in the end? He had been at Home Depot and he heard a young wide couple talking about a remodel. Wife suggests helpfully, maybe we should pull the rug up and see if there are hardwood floors underneath. Honey, we live in a trailer. Oh, right. What you call a severe case of chronic HGTVitis We need a vaccine. A steaming hot load and the old man watched too much of it himself. There’s always a unexpected surprise discovery you should have seen coming and now you’re gonna need more money. Practically a rule of life.
Don’t look at what’s there. Look at what was there before what is here was there. Do you see it?
You know what I know for a fact. I know for a fact I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever been with. Why doesn’t that bring me more comfort? Say you’re an old man and blah blah, you come to the next morning, there’s this puzzling message. Like somebody broke into the house quietly and planted a post-it note.
Right under your nose. Felt like another personality had split off but didn’t want to make himself known. Not yet. Just stay in the dark for now. And whisper.
Crazy is bad enough, but crazy and rich and aggressive and wrong, that’s not good. Not hard to guess who that note’s about.
Or is it? So many of them.
