The impact energizes me
to learn and dissect…everything.

Today, I am
using what I have, not craving any new material. I found this stuff a while ago, “cellular clay.” A brick of white powdery substance that my girlfriend describes as coming from Mexico, really comes from the Seattle Recreative — a store that sells scraps to artists (it is my favorite store, and that was not my favorite joke from her). It is basically papier-mâché, and acts as strong as clay and can be sanded after it dries. I am using it to stabilize a part of my work that has been revealing itself as quite fragile (and made a few skeptical in recent studio visits).

I made the gooey, pulpy
substance in the sink at home after making breakfast for my girlfriend’s six year old, playing rather patiently with the array of motor vehicles on the counter top — there was even a helicopter — while I read her messages to me about the strip of traffic she has been waiting in for twenty minutes.
WTF, she types.

Later, writing this, listening
to that recording making me think of all the things I cannot change, the thoughts move toward the privilege of having evidence, and being able to see from all vantage points. I straddle, careen, rotate, and create semi-circles in the dust of styrofoam on the floor of my studio to see every bit of this piece of fucking styrofoam I turned into my girlfriend’s current personal hell; the place where my anxiety stirs up and also often sorts out. I am in traffic.