I cannot seem to quiet my mind about having put you through that horrific scene last night. I keep conjecturing on the very valid critique that should come my way. If you could just tell me the worst of it now so I can perhaps get over it and stop this preoccupation with failure. I know good things can come of all this but right now it all feels awful. Also, I’m likely being just as absurd with these words as with the performance, so feel free to roll your eyes at me, as I wrote on the wall to you last night.
is how, at midway through this three hour piece, I realized there needn’t be a piece anymore, that it was all too much, that it was irrelevant, that all those emotions came up then and really only then did the piece begin. It was only then that i could demand water, a cigarette and stop the noise. It was only then that i could command the audience with my words. It was only then, in the aftermath of trying so hard to achieve something, that I might have achieved something… and maybe only one image is needed to show that, or a sound, or some form or editing and translation that is perhaps as simple as this screenshot of my unsubscribing from the mood chart study that had been prescribing my life to me for the past year and a half. I had to make the work to realize i didn’t have to show the work… or what needed to be shown was not the making but the understanding gleaned from it.