I create novellas every day, writing a stream of fiction in my head that somehow turns out to be art offering up an explanation, a description and a celebration. Sometimes I put some music to it. Fragments of Motley Crue most of the time. I have a need to rock, to ingratiate myself with solid output from the inputs of introspection. It's a core team of multicolored editors, flamboyant teamsters picketing the inbox of a migrant achiever, presumably all for the sake of posterity.
The translation of geographies from one person's list into something I can use and leverage for my own benefit brings up thorny questions; the philosophy of living is at once compacted into the study of the translation, and expanded into the universality of formulaic expression. In and through the process of devising and constructing the formula(s), the significance and the absurdity of the translation explodes on the scene: a collection of posers - browsing and shopping and snooping at the behest of consumption and lying about the true result of the transaction. The implication is a new geography, one that can be used to satisfy the silo-ed interest group occupying the other half of the floor and no longer relegated to the guest bedroom.
Multiply this by one hundred and we have a new meeting place.
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