My dream was creepy in an interesting way. I saw him nervously and convincingly change his face at me, not only expressions, his entire bone structure morphed before my eyes (must be my projections for a self-proclaimed gemini). I screamed, I rarely get shocked anymore but this dream did it.
Art seems to be perpetual competition between my tendency to pull a formula out of everything and my ability to be random and not make sense out of it.
^ This is formulation.
^ This is formulation.
^This is not trying to make sense of the randomness of dreams.
Last time I stayed the night in SD I ran away from a belligerent pizza flipping Ali drunkenly confessing his love to me after he got kicked out of the club for petting me. I found the weirdest place to hide – a black and white hotel lobby, so black and white you turn black and white when you go in, your skin checkered, you sing in ones and zeros. In the middle of the floor, underneath the vaulted ceilings, a pianist is playing. I lay over the piano and looked up at the black and white ceiling at its black and white stars. I didn’t think anyone ever really fell in love. For someone who loved love so much, I never thought I’d receive it, infatuation was always the goal. Love was something I invented for my own pleasure, something only my mind could fathom along with the multitude of other feelings that have yet to be spoken into existence.
Anthropological Magical Realism 