ARTIST STATEMENT #21
A stranger's recalcitrant glance across a room full of frightened children, unrepentant as the day is long. Swans of the east, guilty of the crime of not acknowledging Christ, as well as of brandishing those flaming swords on hallowed ground at inopportune moments, feathers all akimbo like a woman who knows what she wants. "My scalp is all sore, I miss you tons;" the sweetest, most innocent text message of recent memory, and suddenly the feeling of smallness is inescapable. My focus on the green diamonds of early December, still shining keenly in this nascent winter chill, is abruptly shattered, though Golden Gate Park still shimmers with more gems than the mind can conceive, like the sands of the Ganges slipping silently through a monumental hourglass. I sit on a tree stump and attempt to forget the roar of traffic, the day-glow orange glint of park workers seen fleetingly through the trees as they follow their Ariadne's threads to maintenance sheds. Swans of the west, I fear for you most of all. Though yours is the most sublime of beauties, within the steel trap of your violin contours lies the dormant promise of ultimate betrayal, that of becoming irretrievably lost within the sensation of sliding your own finger along the vein path of your pale forearm, a subtle pleasure trailed along behind it like streamers, to the exclusion of all else, forever. A still point of acute sensation, and all around, blood, black as the unbridgeable gap between mind and mind.