I wish I could somehow express with words on a piece of paper the feelings I’m feeling right now. Maybe this is so cliché and passé but the things that I’m feeling, the feelings I’m feeling, I’m sure that someone else knows what I’m going through. And that’s just it, ain’t it? The feelings of the feelings I’m feeling are something that we all share with each other, along with our desire to be understood by other people, it’s part of what makes us human beings, isn’t it? I think that maybe Henry Miller was onto something when he decided to go off on stream of consciousness art-rants about the nature of life and love and sex in Clichy in another century, because I’m sure we haven’t figured out better words to express it now. There’s no way that we have, for though language morphs and changes and transmutes, there is no way that it has changed that much in so little time. We are like rocks and sand and wind – these things take time.We are all landscapes.
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