Recently, I don't know why, I can only guess or make vague gestures toward knowing, I have felt the return of my creative self. Having near scorned the art world for its perversities, intrinsic unfairness, vacuity and desperate brilliance (and that's only Birmingham!) for the last few years I want to work my way back in and make some shit hot art. If only for myself.
It's already happening pasque - dieux! With installments being worked on for Insertspace, new films being made (see Pissy Lynne on my Facebook page); and a whole boiling sea of ideas eagerly awaiting the spill like mastiffs roaring for quarry. I'm excited about things. I am susceptible to stimuli in ways I haven't felt in five whole bloody years - the divining rod in my head singing. I laugh aloud at the smallest things - I have always held by asbestos gelos - inextinguishable laughter. It's time to stop making excuses for the things I'm not doing and start spurting hyperbolics about the things I am. They are large in number and swell daily.
Swell me bell.
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