| dewy decimal |
2004-04-03 - 4:16 p.m.
I look at people; John Galliano, Hedi Slimae, Bruce Labruce, Ryan McGinley, JT Leroy and how they do so much for queer culture in such a prolific and subversive way that is smart and makes me want to take my spray paint to walls in a way. And then I look at myself who is just stuck. Myself, who recognizes the art of subversiveness, the challenege of the enfant terible and spends his Sundays sleeping in until 3 when the only television programming is bad programming and your headache from excessive drinking, drugs and escapism makes you curl into your sleep that much tighter, that much more resistant to the striking day that finds its way onto your face at loud angles.
My plans are not galvanizing and my life is not improving. I'm privy to a secret that even if I told everyone, I'm sure no one would understand.
The secret is this. The secret is me. The nest is falling. Come, let's fly by night. "Don't look down," Twan says. "Just jump. Let's jump."