I begin the decluttering as I do every quarter. I accumulate, even if it’s wasteful plastic garbage. I use some of it, lose some of it, abandon projects, shove them somewhere in a closet or a drawer or under the bed and then begin the slow dismantling;the huge purge from the slow binge. It’s not that I don’t have focus, it’s that my attention is divided. I want to do everything, I combine two open tubs of blue glitter and spill some on the floor.
“Fuck.’
I have let things get too far. I have moved into an entire house with this traveling Crayola theater. In this box, glitter, tons of it, inexplicably, tissue paper, stencils, the ink to go with it, stickers, ribbon, lace, so many things and I am remembering.

“Postcards.”
I have come down with a case of fatigue in the middle of everything. When people say the artists work is reflective of the artist, why won’t anyone glue all my parchments to a wall and let the audience figure it out themselves? I just love to stop.

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