Bogged down by social media's endless popularity contest and the strictures of screen-writing (my efforts there currently going nowhere), I'm producing this post, and possibly some others, as a type of grease to keep the wheels turning, the gears grinding. Consider it a diary of sorts. A traditional blog, if you will, harkening back to the joy of the early aughts and the freedom that came from being allowed to burble any old crap onto the screen in the certain knowledge that only a tiny group of people would ever read or judge it. Long sentences! Sub-clauses with commas! Serif fonts! An undistinguished visual design. Fuck yes. I can already feel myself relaxing into a warm tub of zero expectation.
The hero or patron saint of this blog for 2019 is the photographer Peter Beard. Honestly, I want to take that man out to dinner and listen to everything he might spill, as if he was the oracle at Delphi. He knows how to live properly and fully inside his own house and fill it with splendid crap. This often takes the form of incredible, baroque, mucky visual diaries which, though art projects in themselves, have also yielded art that I find utterly transporting and magical:
"I'm an expert on futility, and I like the futility and the pettiness of my diaries...It's a sort of laundry list of the day. Totally meaningless, but it makes a texture, the texture of the day, and at the end of the year you have a lot to show for the year. It's life-thickening. I don't think of it as work; I've always just loved doing it. It's like being an addict."
"It's avoidance of art; that's what the diaries are all about. I've avoided doing art because I never liked homework"
Vanity Fair, November 1996
So - this blog, still aptly named after nearly 15 years of sporadic entries, is, for this moment, my life-thickening diary. It's necessarily not image-heavy because anything visual is homework for me right now but it will be full of words, like an egg is full of meat.
Read on, MacDuff. Or leave me to my own devices. Really - I don't care.