This is where I start making fun of myself, or at least my sub-conscious. Some little foreman of some area of my lower brain function has this idea that I should be a �tormented artist� so the little fucker sends out work orders in the middle of the night for activity where there simply should not be any!
The mind is a complex organ capable of rendering abstract thought into form and shapes, but not most abstract art, because I still don�t get that shit, but the ability to conceptualize... music, for instance, into physical form. Much like an electric engineer who�s studied RF most of his adult life can picture signals as the peeks and valleys of an oscilloscope. My thoughts, my impossible thoughts, meld with human form combining the stimulants of yesterday into one medium. Skeletons dipped in yellow wax move and writhe to articulate the emotion and thoughts dancing in my head.
Perhaps it�s the butterfly theory in action. The castle wall falling disturbed something in the air and created a tempest on the other side of the universe.
So here I am, room filled with the soft glow of my monitor, the harsh beat of �Pretty Hate Machine� fills the emptiness and competes with the whir of my computer fan.
I need to escape this hyperbaric inflow of imagery and thought.
I really can�t help but make fun of myself.
Crack my head open and use the energy to light the world because I have a hammering fire coursing through my skull, threatening to pound the backs of my eyes out.
Yes.. Take note. This is perhaps the second or third time in my history with Diaryland where I�ve exercised self-censorship. It�s my small victory over my more logical half to put in this notice. It was nothing constructive and nothing healthy. It has been removed and we move on. Always� we move on.
-G