"He was waiting for some impulse, from he knew not where, to put his stopped life into motion again. " Jack London, Martin Eden
stolen from D, for she always reads better books than I. More enjoyable. I'm here reading Zizek, a Hegelian Lacanian philosopher who seems to think he can write about anything and does. And it titillates me to no good end in a way. Cept I never do it right, I never build up to these guys like philosophy students. I just heaves into it, picking one and ignoring the rest. I`m the same with my art history, I know a lot bout modernity but I`ll be damned if I could name a Corot painting. I skip movements and decades of arts with no even a side glance, banishing them to obsecurity in my mind.
I printed yesterday and realized my aquatint was superb, unlike my worry. The blanket on the other hand needed a spruce up due to printing a thousand small plates in the same spot. I later found it it just needs to be laundered, and thus should be restored. It`s a good image, should print well when I get my good inks come in.
The Erotic Show was yesterday at the Leyton Gallery. It was a good first start for that type here in the city. Some really interesting stuff, some expected stuff for an erotic show. Kent Jones was there in attendance, had some great drawings and we chatted. Told me about the blankets.
He later took Craig and I out to supper at Mexicali Rosa`s, and it was nice. Only wish I could entertain him as he entertains me with his stories.
Came back here after, though was not a lot to do last night. Eventually went home for a few drinks with C, was a bit of a gathering there by my roommates. Was okay, had some late night discussions with C.
``And no, you shouldnt have to wonder if the whole scene makes my cock hard.``
J.T.H
His words always seem like they speak true to me. Closest thing that Newfoundland will ever get to a Bukowski, and to that, maybe he falls a little short. But who cares. Only me in my idolizing. It`s just funny when you look back in hindsight and the divergent paths that happen. I could have a skin of red leather, eyes always in squint and hands that could polish pans. Its not too hard to imagine seeing the town, seeing the lines in the family. Seeing the lines in an uncle`s face.
Would just been another in a history of haulers and workhorses, with maybe a knack to get down on paper what I see.
Yet I`m not. I don`t know if those moments were decided by me, or decided my the parents, or who the fuck. It just never happened. I've only rode on a quad once, first time on the ocean was in Nova Scotia, and that's that; a hangashore most certainly. An outsider for a long time now, and it don't seem to be changing.
