Journal Entry #1

(1997)


I find myself afraid to write in my new journal, since I have adorned it with stickers of flowers, since it is so very pretty, and so very clean and pure - will I blacken and taint it with ugliness, with ashen desires? Depeche Mode on my Love's stereo, the clanks and clamors of rusty lead pipes and melodramatic loves, but I am so in love, and the melodrama is so deep and aching that it is invisible, even to my own eyes, and the stage is set with actors in white, plaster-of-Paris makeup and too much rouge (to symbolize joy), and I am drowning in this new serenity, this new life my Love has given me, this glittering life I have perhaps given myself.

And essentially, this is a volume about my Love, my closest friend, my most desired lover. I am dreaming of you, your hair filled with Cupid's darts and Sainfoins bursting from your beautiful hands. I will cover your dreams with morphic kisses, I shall lay rose petals on your beautiful loins, your soft stomach...

I long to draw a woman in black and blue. Roses in darkness,
that eternal blending of elegance, femininity, and sorrow. The
moment of unrequited love, breathed like a whisper onto cotton
paper, creamy-white, pure. A world forever locked in animated
emotion, the snapshot of the color which white fever brings.

And art and creation must exist within that stillness which is
the aftermath of living; somewhere between soft death and
psychotic passion lies this particular threshold. Only language,
paint, or a lover's memories can do this, can form the medium
upon which daily consciousness is written.