Urine and journals. What has become of my life? The question becomes more complicated considering that this urine, meticulously collected from past lovers, resides now in trophy-like reverence. Does love cork or does it get more refined as it ages?
The Journal, a whirlwind tour of one man’s experience locked into an African nature preserve. Can we ever really explain all that has happened to us even as we write it in the moment? And that question is absolutely complicated by time itself substantially expensive and careening towards event horizons. There was a page missing and it is currently lost at sea.
Props for a game that very few will ever play because it is Most Dangerous. The animal that is Man: a tricky adversary for the hunter, psychologically sophisticated. Where hunter and prey are friends but perhaps simply hunter and hunter. Snails on razor blades. Bleeding on the edge.
Will all great artists slice themselves open to move the medium? What are the ethics of self-destruction when the product is creative? Who decides what is appropriately misunderstood and what is just crazy? Are those judging willing to be thus tested or are they worried about their next rent check? Does that opinion matter when it becomes money and not art? The medium is ephemeral: doesn’t someone have to make it fiscally responsible?
It was never my game, an observer warned relentlessly not to get involved. A game of two. Does observation have a place in immersion? Then again, I was the caddie for golf, this my catharsis. I did unknot the Denouement. Is this the effect of observation? I suppose I was a pawn. Do pawns have a vested interest in Freytag's structures?
There was something colonial about the moment. From Africa to golf via the Titanic retelling of an impoverished African to these rich kids at a once-famous nudist colony. Using nitrous as substitute golf balls chipping at a dependency reducing humans to scurrying prey stockpiling for an ersatz starvation.