Saturday December 08th 2007, 8:04 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the exhaust factor,

I’m pretty sure today is Sunday; however, don’t quote me on this. The days pass by and continue to advance, no matter my mental state. Today could just as well be Friday, or even a Tuesday. It’s easy to lose myself in a week when I’m jobless and hopeless. There is a constant nagging in my mind “Get a job; get a clue.” I try to ward off these bitter toned commands with thoughts of positive experiences I’m having here in Los Angeles. Like last night for example, my friend and I did a live drawing at a warehouse gallery. We sat in front of a 4-foot by 7 ft canvas and rendered out a post-apocalyptic image of a deserted street scene, where nature has rebirthed and regrown around all the man made structures and technologies. The center of the piece had a car with a tree growing out from under its hood. When all was said and drawn, our piece was one of the best in the show. We worked on it for six straight hours, which I am proud of. Best of all, we now have a new drawing to furnish the wall of our living room at the house I am living. In sadder news, the painting I made of you and Konanni, lying together, was destroyed today by a vicious dammar varnishing. The ruined painting mocks me and so I can’t decide whether or not to throw it away. It was a nice intimate piece, which I hadn’t documented. And so, it is destroyed, and will never live as a painting that could have been hung on the wall of a gallery. On the bright side of this tragic death, I can now stop lamenting over those stupid photos of you and Ko. I transcended that pain through the painting and the painting is now dead. Therefore, my pain has died with it. My studio walls are bare, except for the dead monkeys drawn directly on the drywall. I feel bad because I haven’t been in the studio for two weeks, until today of course. But I’ve been keeping myself busy, doing design work here and there, as I narrowly skate by my bills this month. I have to find a job by next month, otherwise I won’t be able keep my studio space; and by not keeping my studio space, my mental health will plummet into a deep depression (worse than it already is now). There are many specters in my past that visit me from time to time. You, being an obvious one, visit me in my dreams; however, I usually awake even more tired than I was before I went to sleep – you exhaust me, my dear. Many other ghosts come in material forms, as reminders that spark memories of real people from my past. I’m pretty sure these specters are plain neurological consequences of a normal and healthy imaginative memory system, but maybe someday I’ll let a psychiatrist confirm this suspicion. What is it that makes memories ignite? Why can’t we pick and choose how the autonomous neurological mesh we call a brain, function’s with regard to memory? That would be a nice ability for me right now– to get rid of my painful memories and maybe even supplant them with imagined and made up ones. Someday I’ll find a way to make reality twist and turn to my bidding, but not tonight. No, tonight I will work on getting you out of my dreams. I hope the destruction of your painting is a sign that you are disappearing from my mind.


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