Dazed and apathetic I sit here staring blankly at the computer screen, vaguely aware of the ghoulish light illuminating my room from the monitor. A moth flutters stupidly along the side of my naked torso, what instinct is driving this pathetic creature? It dives, bashing itself into the monitor screen over and over, fluttering around helpless and unstoppable. Severe and tragic.

In a different place I�m day dreaming. I want to give every person on the planet a book. I don�t care which, anything but the New York Times best sellers would do, we should gather those all up in a lovely funeral pyre, a sacrifice to the god of indolence.

I want to photograph someone beautiful, radiating in the midst of depravity. I want to smear classical beauty with filth and human nature, I want to dress up lies as truth and set it all on fire. I want to stand behind people analyzing my photographs again. As a photographer, there is nothing quite more fulfilling then listening to people criticize you, no matter the motive. They could be trying to impress the person they are with, expressing their religious programmed condemnations, or they can recognize it for the contrived shit it really is, it doesn�t matter.

I�ll stand there with a hammer and bash myself in the face every time someone clops by on the hard wood floors, apathetic. My face will become the impact, I will become the art. I will stand there with a sign saying �I am a terrified little boy screaming for attention.�

I�ll take labored and artificial pictures of fruit bowls and cobble stoned streets and giggle in glee at the ultimate sarcasm of selling them to banks to hang in their lobbies. I will become the ultimate art fag. *kiss* *kiss*

I�m just a person who recognizes and appreciates the absurdity of it all.

Just think, do you giggle inanely to yourself when you order from Starbucks? I�m the best person for myself to make fun of, I get the joke.

-G

Diane Arbus, 1962