About

I spend my time breaking into apartments--to graffiti--leaving hearts done with a lipstick-pen.

Parading through Pennsylvania in drag.

Weird dancing in all-night computer-banking lobbies. Unauthorized pyrotechnic displays. Land-art, earth-works as bizarre alien artifacts strewn in State Parks. Burglarize houses but instead of stealing, leave Poetic-Terrorist objects. Kidnap someone and make them happy.

Pick someone at random and convince them they're the heir to an enormous, useless and amazing fortune--say 5000 square miles of Antarctica, or an aging circus elephant, or an orphanage in Bombay, or a collection of alchemical mass. Later they will come to realize that for a few moments they believed in something extraordinary, and will perhaps be driven as a result to seek out some more intense mode of existence.

I try to write;

I have a sense of rightful failure about me. I seem to mess up more than I succeed; regardless, this exemplifies me. I have a sense of right and wrong skewered by the pictures and events thrown hastily onto canvas screens. I see actions in levels of dramatics. I see beautiful colors of people-- people who no doubt see the world shaded by camera lights and makeup. This overly romantic vision of the world keeps whispering to me what to do, what to say, what to feel, what to think... and I do it. And it feels right-- scratch that-- it is right to me. But I do slip up and yet, no matter what I do, I find myself wishing it were raining just so I could stand outside and soak the water up to remember it forever; I find myself wanting to wallow in my failures. There's this nagging suspicion that won't leave me alone tonight. It seems like everything I try to do never seems to turn out right.

This rightful failure that I describe constantly seems to amass a sea of misfortune around me.

No matter what I do, it is always wrong; no matter how I do it, it can't turn out right.
Despite how far my understanding goes, or how contradictory failure would be, success still eludes my grasps.

I live each day as ignorant as the last; the past day's lessons already lost.
It is only at night, when my body grows tired, yet my thoughts are still in rapture, do I truly see my flaws--the errors of my way.

Despite all this I cannot seem to find a way to correct this feeling--my dreams dictate to me the ways to act, and I follow them, because it is how I have envisioned the world my entire life. I cannot change now I tell myself; for this is right.