Bill Viola (and Avery Fisher)

Tuesday really was wonderful... capped by the opera (Figaro) and faded in smoke...

But yesterday... yesterday at the Whitney when I felt drugged right into my own head... the darkness and the whispers and the hypnosis... "BILL VIOLA." But still, my tongue burns from nicotine and I am scared of myself... again... as always... scared of myself.

And now, at Ollies, at 67th street- my finger blackened by its naive attempts to burn and my eyes and lungs blackened by its success... part of my mad wanderings and recession into images and half crazy pull on my lower back by toting the weight of the world on a torn leather strap--

My cheeks are cooled by the wind-- my eyes made orange with cream and my tongue-- my tongue swallowing itself in that wanting.

Anyway, the food is here, so as always-- must go!

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And now later and outside in the soiled swamp of tommyknocker fountain lights, cursed and broken by the smell of night. The yellow pine of the ballet falls like urine on my legs. And I am streaming through the forest of poisoned sticks and cry at the opera and choke on my own self-hatred manifested in my dreams falling inside my bag and so my chest and I blacken myself and burn my nose with water.

And intermission fills Avery Fisher with couples of slender silhouettes staring down at mine-- lumped into the columns and I feel myself sabotaged. They stroll and gag on their overpriced sodas and I feign anxiety-- all a part of the master script-- the greatest studio picture.

And maintenance walks my way and passes. They move through the windows in tiers-- cast against the soft yellow, rolling like cue balls all in silence-- without purpose. And my throat buns now, but I feel like Humphrey Bogart so it's all worth it-- isn't it?

Only when my eyes start to burn am I reminded of the hatred of my youth. And an uninterested man strolls in the night sky-- one of the stars-- no, I take it back... The sky is creamy and blank. And I can't write because my foot has fallen asleep and my hands are cold and numb without pleasure. And I creep without cause... Always without cause.

The Brahmsian silhouette of age strolls not one hundred feet ahead and I wonder if it is death who has come for me.

And I will close to cry for a moment. No. Tears did not come and I will leave here soon... When this spin is spun.

And I wonder why I have to be this way.

And a smooth man from the opera paints himself int eh 1920's. A real Joe Kennedy and it's a wonder I am even still here. I burn from the inside so much without the ability for expression.

Thank you, Bill Viola.

And one more after this.

I know they are seeing Hoffman and I wonder what act. And I know when I get up I'll be stained.