My lungs are freshly inebriated with the sweet smell of blue and green oil paint. The crisp crackle of turpentine on skin, the ruddiness of hands afterwards. And I wonder why people use acrylics. This picture is probably the last thing I will have painted (for a good while anyway) using this plasticous modern medium, so stiff, so brittle, so lenient to quick air drying. Makes me think of fat cheap brushes in kindergardengoers’ tiny hands, big tubes of bright colour, splattered on thin poster paper.

The necessity of colour, spread on white, thin here and thick there, to balance the necessity of not thinking. I wake as if from a long dream, and the air is round and new and the morning yellow.
Nights of non sleep, partly due to world cup induced psychosis, partly to the increasing schism between lightness and weight, as limbs and heart and veins adjust to new spaces, creaking into place like an old house. There are moments where one must live the heaviness, embrace it masochistically, let it weigh you down for a time. In order to put lightness into perspective again.

Kundera said that lightness is unbearable to being, not in the sense that we cannot stand it, but in the literal sense of the word ‘to bear’, that is: to carry, to sustain. lightness cannot be sustained, so that Being inevitably gravitates towards heaviness, in order to search for lightness again.

We are lava lamps.