At 17 I was tickled by Tanguy, Ernst and Delauney. Under the spell of Freudian texts and Jungian dreams, I deduced those canvas' of Miro and DeChirico. In the hypnosis of Duchamp, I found my way out of the labrynth. Then near 10 years later I discovered the "force of words" and have yet to turn back from Artaud, Eluard, Tzara and Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Genet and Corso. Then there are the Russians Osip, Anna and Marina for a reality check. Now I lie on my back at Brighton Beach in the vodka stained sands of a half beach, a shore without waves, and imagine it is Odessa.
Indeed until La Maquina of time travel is discovered, "Amour Fou" would be my only ticket to a Rumi-esque theme park, a Dionysian disco, an injection of acai love with Cleopatra's needle. All the slick chase scenes send me through the dark rainy alleys of a plusque parfait Paris, full of the steamy smoke of lusty paramours with Text on their minds. Alphaville, in the minds eye, she is lovely. Zebulon has reached his destination. And You, thank you for participating, adding, collaging, transmitting thoughts on the sea of "my ever changing moods"
Lets defile the morals of Idiots. There is no Revolution without Love. Vive Les Differences!
