It was impossibly hot and the pidgeons went up over the roofs and spiraled like DNA into the sky.
I was cutting up and collaging the painting made from the pants my father died in. It had been a brutal day of doubts about the figure vs. abstraction and throwing caution to the wind and then I was kneeling and listening to Coltrane and sort of praying-like over the tearing and gluing and destroying a recreating thing with the pants, when my naked knee came to rest directly on a tiny shard of glass. It looked much worse than this as the blood was in crimson red rivulets down my leg and and my knee was printed again and again on the studio floor. I should have been wearing pants, you see.
