Why I Am A Writer

When I first heard that Brandenburg Concerto, I must’ve been in my crib, freshly fed off my mother’s breast. And lolling there, in the early autumn light I felt the rapid pleasure that my parents must have felt the year prior, that primal urge from heavy-veined leaves ripening, ripening and falling, that incited them to… Continue reading Why I Am A Writer

Post Postmodernism Must Be Devoid of Self-Consciousness

Self-consciousness is bad. I saw the de Kooning exhibit today and even though he scraped and covered his canvases over again and again, it wasn’t to be a great painter, it was to see how far he could go. If he had been like, I want to be a great painter, the paintings wouldn’t have… Continue reading Post Postmodernism Must Be Devoid of Self-Consciousness