The increase in the number of posts seem exponential as months go by. I am not quite sure this time if I can maintain the regularity of releases or lack thereof of the previous months. Had a post in February, three in March, four in April, three in May and a fucking twenty posts in June. Anyway--
To date, certain unidentifiable flashes of moments of pre-creation, creation and post-creation in synapses during the last 24 hours were the highest of the highest peaks of nirvanas (or "orgasms" if you want this sentence to sound liberal and quotable and cool and hip) that I had this year. And, yes, no fancy disclaimers of this post being fiction just like everything our subjective realities shove up our throats and no speaking-in-riddles and guess-what-I-am-alluding-to's and see-if-you-know-who-this/these-"you/s"-is/are's this time.
Er... no, I'd rather not post either mechanically or digitally produced images (or "photographs") of the abomination that came out of one of the holes that excrete whatever they were supposed to regurgitate. Would write about the why soon. And, nope, wouldn't give any clue either what the artwork is about. Setting aside the backdrop for the ARREST concert (in collaboration with UP Painters' Club) way back in 2005, I think this newborn is the largest of the previous aborted, diarrheaed, vomited outraged malignant growths that stick themselves on museum walls or even sidewalks or anywhere they might consider a resting place.
I feel tired and energetic at the same time. Feeling like a drained battery that still has a lot of excess energy sure feels like a drained battery that still has a lot of excess energy and so on. Having no sleep and enjoying not having that sleep you should have had but you have not because of doing things you wanted to do despite the health hazards is something that can neither be expressed in words nor captured in pictures, even in memories. Those moments are those moments, existing in themselves, and forgotten no matter how sharp our memory recalls are. After those moments we remember what we want to remember, whether we are un/conscious of the schemes of selective memory and its friend, selective amnesia.