THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
I don't say anything about what goes on in my life, unless I feel like I have someone there to tell. Maybe these are all better told as conversations than as stories.
All I do is sit around and make art, anyway.
I was sitting in Canter's today, and I was thinking about how a man who might have been Rufus Wainwright at the counter and two men in the booth behind me who worked, apparently, for the Simspons and were throwing around ideas for a cartoon about animals in therapy or something, didn't even remotely interest me, but it does make me think. And it might just be the way that I look at things now, but I'd rather be friend and love people who aren't from Los Angeles. From California at all.
I want to take them here and show them what it is, and know, in that secret way, that as many memories you can have in a place, and as much you can love a person, what you know will just be a place to them, and they'll never see it the way you will. I want to take them here and show them why I love it so much and why it's so amazing and why it isn't what people see it for, and I want them to see it.
If I found someone from here, I don't think they'd get it. I just don't think they would.
But someone from somewhere else would.
I guess that makes me lucky.
For lots of reasons.
People keep calling me sick when they look at my work. And it hasn't once stopped delighting me immensely.
Doing what I do right now does something funny to me. Placate, maybe. It placates me. I feel like I lose a little of my verbal edge. When you don't do anything, you've got a lot of talk. Now, there's not a lot I can say. I just want to do it. I can't explain.
Maybe I'm just happy.