Spent the afternoon using up the last of the paper and ink in the studio and then went to studio mates opening. Feeling bleek about the next couple of weeks without any supplies and all… when on the way home I found three refridgerator doors (haven’t found one in months and suddenly three!). When God closses a window he opens the fridge, or something. Anyway felt like a sign to keep going om om om (sometimes magical thinking is the only way to get through the night).

I went out to peek around Chelsea galleries… creating the usual sence of dread and nausea. I saw a few okay things (the Breitz video show at Sonnabend asks all those semiotic questions about gender and pop culture that have become sort of droning, but does it in a surpisingly musical, human, and even joyful manner… actually it allows the audience to ask those questions within an aesthetic experience as opposed to preaching…. so at least I was smiling once… its very nice to hear people laughing in a gallery). The rest of the day left me tense and depressed. Rustled up the change in my pocket and bought a lonesome beer. When I got home I realized that Old Millwaukee = OM, OM, OM, OM…. beer as buddhist prayer wheel.

This combination of signs keeps popping up all over the city and it is weird how well they work together in colors and composition and also read as a blunt political statement. I first saw them togeher the morning after watching a Frontline doc about torture on PBS. I was realing at the state of the State and washed the bad feeling down with a Methadone doc chaser on HBO. When I woke up, the War and addiction became conflated in my mind as some hellish hallucinatory waking dream that is always in the background looking for an angry fix. Maybe that’s not so far from the truth. Anyway the Afghans are making record amounts of heroin so that ought to fuck everything up even worse. “SNAFU” a jar head might say, but what does he know? He’s doomed.

And who doesn’t love a parade?

“Phebe Wright, in Yellowness schnapper, and from adipex, stiddier than we have serpents to sponsor…”

I have been blanketed with a downy cover of spam comments that softens the blow of rainy days. The above poem is, I guess, a random generated computer event (one among way too many)… It’s part of a computer strategy to sound like something other than a Phentamine add (What the hell is phentamine anyway?) Howwever, if read as Dylan Thomas, it sort of works. This could have something to do with my mom finally reading Joyce… or it’s a beutiful accident… and what’s the difference?…. da da…..?

Meanwhile, the Japanese Pogoda trees are dropping these alien pods on the slick streets. Sometimes it feels like the fifties keep starting over… like reality wants to give the world a second chance… as if dropping the bomb saved that level in the game. Anyway, it’s pleasant (and terrifying) to think so.

The strange gray rain and the sounds of saws and chatter and drums and hammering conspired to make me wish for a more direct unmediated painting. Decided to give up the tricks and just paint. Every day seems like the last day on earth, which is in some ways liberating.