I’m feeling a kind of a way. Cindy suggested I write terribly, which is to say write whatever comes to mind and let it come out whatever it is, in whatever state. I needed inspiration so I decided to read my journal and found the moment.

[August 12, 2022]

My job now is to focus on the total and relentless pursuit of pure imagination. The outside most boundaries of visions and exaggerations. An imagination is something only I can see. Collapsing the space between us in reality would portend greatness, a volume, an unending aperture, but I could certainly think up ways we would create new imaginations shared—smaller, waves, containers. I didn’t know what I like about art because I needed to create my own work. That is all I want to do. My job.

[December 19, 2022, in response]

That is all I have now. An imagination and a job. And I feel myself losing my mind every time I look at the life in which a fantasy has turned into a war machine. By being reminded that no one can belong to me, I am supposed to learn that I am also free. Instead, the intimacies of my world torture me. I don’t recognize who I am. I don’t recognize what I do. I am back to not knowing what I like about art.

A threnody for belonging. Sharing is a kind of compartmentalization, I once observed here. The air we breathe together is a sick joke now. Let me live with the wind, I say. Well, only once everyone has taken shelter, they say. Well what about you? What happens when you close your eyes.