I’m not trying to be enigmatic here…but it’s always hard to try to explain myself.
I read these two unbelievable articles today, one a profile of the "misfit" Comme des Garcons designer Rei Kawakubo and the other about Albania’s irreverent artist-mayor Edi Rama ("He spends his days repairing the body and soul of a shattered capital and his nights prowling its streets…"). (Both are highly individual, inscrutable, ambitious, creative people…which I guess says something about me, or about what I’d like to be.)
It feels like a storm is approaching, and the sky is bright white but the ground and trees are dark…the air is eerily still, like a vacuum or the silent moment right before the climax of a scary movie; heavy with humidity, everything seems somber.
I like being alone, but this utter silence around me is disconcerting. (Just the clickety-clack of my typing, with heavy pauses in between sentences.) I’m tired, but it’s probably just lethargy—I need to get up and move, do something, make something…