A glassine bag of scraps- torn and cut and collected
into a possible fiction – a fragment of a story. Sad inching and fading away
from a dark European romance of myself- Always questioning- sifting through
whys and how’s – re-frame- reframe. The striped tower- a symbol –a sermon.
Summon up my ghosts- conjure them with fake tears – poor you-poor you.
A pleasant song with a rhyming chorus that
soothes-stills from films I will never make – drawings that are not plans but a
map of re-invention. Pages, edges of tape – I have always done this- Ted’s Hawk.
I have my own attic.
