I finally made it to the new Moma today (I’ve been pissed at their twenty dollar entrance fee, but a year later… well its free on friday)… Is it me, or has the place become really stiff? The art looks sort of dwarfed by the galleries (like little drawings stuck on the side of a refridgerator door… I like drawings on refridgerator doors, but I don’t want my de Koonings to look like that). The scale is sort of retail, or big box retail and it throws off the human scale of the work (only the enormo Schnabels have the right size, but I didn’t see any there) It’s now a Judd Judd Judd Judd world (but I prefer it mad). So I Felt more or less like I was in an Ikea and the art was secondary… seemed all of the collection was broken up in favor of little vanity galleries too. I was, in short bugged and it made me feel old and nostalgic (it is a better place now for people watching… if that helps). Caught a few nice pieces though and the Rauchenberg combine show earlier at the Met and a weird new Twombly show at Gagosian. My feet hurt. Wonder if I’ll ever get used to the new Moma… someone really needs to make a mess in that place soon (I liked it better when they were doing demolition). We need some serious Chaos to spice up all that order.

And so the thing of it was to never give Willoughby a voice… to let him only say five words: “I don’t want to die…” and never let anyone know what he was thinking about…

but in this version… which is all now for you backwards… and for me erratic and tonally confused… back story if not on Willoughby than on me seems okay… I was crawling through suburban streets raising money door to door and standing in blocking formation in City streets begging money for John Kerry to loose with (though we didn’t know it at the time… though we feared it) and I was always saying to myself, “I don’t want to die” and so I became intrested in a character with that basic motivation and that basic dialogue… and it is odd now a year later to be working on this thing and feel it makes no sense to me.

I’d be in the winter dark streets of New Jersey towns telling myself small snippets of Willoughby and Clark and I… and a year later I don’t know if it means the same thing and I don’t know what I’m saying and half the time… well I do want to die. How do we save this situation…? Where is this story going?