"Find me a good whole horse carcass, you know, a nice big one. If you don't find a nice one like that, a half will do."

I think I found a happy moment. The joy of frayed ends, ropes and strings of varying lengths, materials, and colors. There's great pleasure in the finangling, the strain to discover, what connects, what braids, and what can't hold. This can happen across various senses -- a book, a film, a woozy drive-by tune, stray scraps of paper, a desultory shuffling-through of dusty urban junk. They're just waiting to be entangled, you tangler, and the more, the more beautiful and scrappy.

The myth of final completion, of seamless perfect archetypes, is a myth sustained by capitalists and others lacking in imagination. It makes us forget that joy, that effortless freedom of space and movement, and gives pause to pointless anxiety -- am I doing it right? Why isn't this as good as I imagined it should be? We don't see the labor or mistakes in someone else's final image; or at least, we've learned to overlook them. The outcome is not instructive, it's consequential.

Anxiety also comes in the form of outside pressures. What should I be doing? What do others think I should be doing, and how do they perceive my choices? These are appropriate, political thoughts, but are soluable; they too can be formed into filament. In the end they should not prevent exploration, but ferment it.

I think I've promised myself, just about every year, that I should do better, be more truthful. I hope to renew this promise again, with an addendum -- trust my own judgement, and take my ideas more seriously, because no one else will and I will die shamefully and privately in regret if I don't do it while I have the capable body and mind. Not to mention, all those slovenly artists with too much on their minds to bother even write death threats to themselves will continue to work far and wide -- not the sort I want to relinquish the world to, or leave unannoyed.