It seems like your work is trying to take a stand, yet it fails to the extent that what it aims to stand on has not been successfully excluded anywhere. If you imagine yourself standing here, then it’s because you think this is the place to be.
I want to ask you why or by what means you see blood in places where there is none. Are you standing in a pool of it?
Last night on the episode of Downtown Abbey that I was watching, a soldier slit his wrists because he’d lost his eyesight and was going to be transferred far away from the people who’d helped him gain confidence. I have often seen and felt myself in a similar light. Seeing yourself from the inside out.
To what extent is fear written into the world?
I pick up scraps; I toss them to the sea. I pick up scraps; I toss them to the sea.
How long will it take before you finish erasing?
I couldn’t possibly explain the trouble I’ve gone to to not erase. I can’t believe you just asked me that question. Did you read what I didn’t write? Did you fall out of the womb yesterday?
More than anything, I want to know what it’s like to be you.
This is a great question. It’s almost too easy. I think I’m better off imagining we’re in a painting, exchanging glances that can then be read by a third or fourth party as an example of something. If I try to say anything else, it will fall flat, flatter than the figures in this draaaawering.
“Etched in stone may break your bones, but names will never hurt you.” What does that elicit for you?
Every rose has its thorn, just like every night has its dawn. Every cowboy sings a sad, sad song. Every rose has its thorn.
Aurora pricks her finger on the spinning wheel and a drop of blood pops out like the head of a baby.
What do you think about the writing you’ve done and want to continue to do? Be honest.
I hate to stop here, but we’re out of time. We can pick this up again tomorrow.