Essay insanity has hit (finally). Hard. Am now, as by magic, pulling out words from invisible sleeves, building a new theory: The theory of painting as dreaming (as Freudian wish-fulfilment), delivered through pictoral landscapes which are both symbolic (clearly narrating of sexually desirable water women etc.) and only vaguely referential, ornamental, patches of colour, abstract shapes illustrating the unclarity of the dream-language, un-understandable by the waking mind as whispers from subsconscious, mildly neurotic voices.
By the end of this year I shall have discovered the language of inspiration. A half-mad language, a grammar of Saussure and the abyss. Monsters shall rise as golden-coloured fireworks also memories, and all shall shudder and despair with (stressful) wonder.
By the end of this year I shall have discovered the language of inspiration. A half-mad language, a grammar of Saussure and the abyss. Monsters shall rise as golden-coloured fireworks also memories, and all shall shudder and despair with (stressful) wonder.
