I imagine the inside of my skull to be etched in graffiti sometimes. Little scratches and scribbles etched into bone, longer tracts that trace out some problem I've wrestled, and wide painted doodles whose origin I can't recall. Outside of myself I see doppelgangers of my interiors: in Seattle a wall of chewed gum initials are odes to the adolescent heart, bathroom stall doors swear at me, stairwells of buildings become shrines to the subversive, palimpsests of advertising speak an unknown gestalt. This, I found today, an encoded binary gem among the garbage I sift through:
Something about this post makes me very sad. It rings true, but I think only in the sadness of it and in that I recognize the sensation. I carry around with me, though, the desperate hope that there are spaces in our head, cracks in the wall, fissures in the heart, where we fall through. It's for that reason that some of us continue to carve out meaning, pull form from stone, layer color where there was none before. You know, like Leonard Cohen's line "There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."
I'm working on another graffiti-esque painting. I'll post a picture tonight, hopefully.
I am your brother - a part of the human collective. You can meet me, shake my hand, hug me, kiss me, fall in love with me, hate me, fuck me, shoot me, and love me again. We can share stories, we can unfold ourselves, reveal our innermost fears and desires, talk about music, about the world, about our pasts, about ourselves. I may know you for two seconds or I may know you for a hundred years. We may be enemies or friends, lovers or strangers. But you, my brothers, my sisters, my parents and children, you will never know me, nor I you. It is the one true bond between us, and it keeps us apart as the ocean divides up the lands. Forever, no matter what, we will always be apart, and although you may gaze in my eyes until the stars shatter, you shall never know the mind behind those eyes, nor the heart that, like and unlike yours, hopes in vain for the comfort of knowing that somewhere in the universe, there is another one just like you.
This is our secret.
Something about this post makes me very sad. It rings true, but I think only in the sadness of it and in that I recognize the sensation. I carry around with me, though, the desperate hope that there are spaces in our head, cracks in the wall, fissures in the heart, where we fall through. It's for that reason that some of us continue to carve out meaning, pull form from stone, layer color where there was none before. You know, like Leonard Cohen's line "There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."
I'm working on another graffiti-esque painting. I'll post a picture tonight, hopefully.
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