"The End of Fiction"
(The Last Two Days of my Creative Journey)
Greetings, just getting the hang of Substack—love it. If you love writing, art, video, mashups, and hybrid experimental stuff, you might just enjoy this space I’m curating. Subscribe, comment, all the things.
“End Of Fiction” (2 photographs, a painting, and digital manipulation)
“Do we need a cardboard hand-written placard to mark the time, or do we need a bulldozer? Has the collective darkness sunken in? I believe it has, I can feel it in my bones. Sometimes I loathe the human species but it becomes harder when faced with a moving piece of art.”
“Do What You Can When You Can”
“Do What You Can When You Can”
Where I sleep piles of Fall clothes lie there,
In a rapid flash, it now feels like Winter.
I have started to wear my black jackets. There is one I call my "intermediate" and one my "Antarctica", I stumble with the hangers trying to choose, often choosing the wrong one.
I like the changing seasons, and paying respect to the rhythmic waves, but the transitions are feeling erratic.
Clothes heaped up, confused, some kind of growing mountain.
I was talking with my mother on my cracked phone.
I told her that things are not always as they were:
A darkened collective forcefield shrouds the air. I feel something on the rise. A different energy on each train, a feeling of societal collapse, that we’re all in it together, but we’re all so separated.
A woman on the street yesterday walked past, "God Bless You" she said after looking at me, while another sneered with an icy glare.
I know God does not need to bless me while wearing a black Dolly Parton shirt and emerald green eye shadow.
At that moment, talking to my mother, my hands could put away clothes, and I did what I could.
last night,
my hands played a nonsensical melancholic strum pattern by the purple-hued light of two Tiffany lamps, dim, dark, just a little ominous.
6 pm, feels like midnight the black night sky creeping into my window and then capturing it.
Time does not clock anymore, but I am not sure it ever did.
I remember the windmill farm one passes on their way from San Diego to the desert. Somehow, at that moment, it felt relevant.
Everything is interconnected, trying to make sense of it all, this quote with that color pop, this prompt with that paint, I carry supplies with me everywhere I go.
My back, the army, my backpack the imagination.
Change and possibility flash and flair, I prepare for an energy battle while trying to capture one firefly with a net in a Southern breeze.
Video and Art Interpretation of “Do What You Can When You Can”
I took myself on what I call a self-date. Just me, a pen, paper, and a book full of essays for an early night solo Brooklyn outing at a place I found alluring yet had not gone. It did not disappoint. Here is what I created tonight there and a bit after.
“Soothe Me Baby, Soothe Me”
