Emerging from sleep inside the curtains protected from light, amongst the ruins of darkness and the guide rails of unconscious refuge, constructions fade slowly into the floor and walls where they have existed, incarnate, just a short distance from closed and fluttering lids, their dust the faint odor of hope (...Mmmmm).
Close your eyes and start talking alone and often. See how foolish you feel. After a time it gets easier, you get more confident with yourself, you learn to except most of the nonsense that everyone else hears in that social distillation of 'it all'. No what I mean? Anyway I thought that if I was to crucify this with a title I'd call it 'Devils Tower' after Northern Wyoming's Devils Tower, the name of the mountain that Richard Dreyfuss had a presentiment of in Close Encounters. It's an unavoidable gesture when I begin work right now and it's just some personal stuff in need of resolution.
A spread that I've always been curious about. The contents are trace fragments of anxiety about my life; getting off the merry go round, a mixed response to a TV story of a mountain plane crash, the persistence of Hitlers memory, religious zealotry's claim to order and the ramblings of a man embedded for a time in the indecipherable codes of alchemy, the latter, in retrospect, being this marks fulcrum.