last night i had a dream that the police were accusing me and nine others of murder but for some reason it was no big deal. i remember thinking, "it's chill, i didn't kill anyone so i'll just hang out until they catch the right person." i went to what i thought was the police station but was actually some weird re-arranged version of my room. i could tell they'd been looking through and bagging up some of my stuff. i sat down on the bed and realized that i was on ecstasy (WHAT) and there was nothing i could do about it. i was feeling weird - like i was rolling balls but also like i was going to pass out - and as two cops approached me and one put his hand on my shoulder everything got swirly and started to fade to black and all i could hear was a warped version of the cops laughing - and then i woke up. uh, so, what???
lately i've been reading f. scott and zelda fitzgerald's letters to each other. they're sad, beautiful, funny, ridiculous things and sometimes almost too conscious of the fact that they will eventually be seen by people other than zelda & scott. a line from a letter from september? 1930 that i've thought about a lot today - "you were going crazy and calling it genius - i was going to ruin and calling it whatever was at hand."
did you read summer 2010's issue of artforum? you should have.
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