He Pulled Away, But His Eyes Held

My Ideal Life Is Just Lounging Around The House And Every Once In A While I'll Kind Of Write Something, And Then I'll Leave And Eat Something And Masturbate Or Whatever - Just This Very Fluid Life Of Comforting Myself.

… It Wasn’t Pretend, I Wasn’t In A Fairytale Or A Fable. I Shut My Eyes And Absorbed The Silent Whoomp That Always Accompanies This Revelation. It’s The Sound Of The Real World, Gigantic And Impossible, Replacing The Smaller Version Of Reality That I Wear Like A Bonnet, Clutched Tightly Under My Chin.

So The Recordings Were These Immersive Landscapes, And Yet, Unlike The Performances That Almost No One Would See, I Had A Sense That These Could Live Forever. I Was Just Starting To Get My Head Around The Democratic Aspect Of Art; I Didn't Want To Make Rarefied Things That Were Either Alienatingly Obscure Or Elite And Art-worldy, So A Recording That Anyone Could Buy Was A Great Medium.

It Was A Real Whale, A Photograph Of A Real Whale. I Looked Into Its Tiny Wise Eye And Wondered Where That Eye Was Now. Was It Alive And Swimming, Or Had It Died Long Ago, Or Was It Dying Now, Right This Second? When A Whale Dies, It Falls Down Through The Ocean Slowly, Over The Course Of A Day. All The Other Fish See It Fall, Like A Giant Statue, Like A Building, But Slowly, Slowly.

For A Split Second I Felt As Though She Was Nobody Special In The Larger Scheme Of My Life. She Was Just Some Girl Who Had Tied Me To Her Leg To Help Her Sink When She Jumped Off The Bridge. Then I Blinked And Was In Love With Her Again.