This is an old, old photograph (a polaroid, actually) taken from my fire escape. I've been reading M John Harrison's Nova Swing. I've been thinking about a new painting. I've been thinking about a new life. About the membrane between moments, between worlds, between dimensions. All a perceptual movement through time and this so-called place of illusion. Is anything really fixed? Maybe that's why we take pictures and make them. It offers the tactile proof of an event. Breadcrumbs back through the forest. We can't follow it but can gaze back at its pattern--so many illuminated particles along the slipstream of our passage.
I am flypaper to all these things I see: the fiery sunset from a tiny photo, the rain's black asphalt inscriptions, and the picture the sound of wheels through it. And now here the spiky letters making their thicket on fake paper. Reading them might give you another permutation of marking the journey through a world of slowed-down light (what matter is).
Its all a grand, debased love affair with chaos.
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