Selavy - back home

It becomes obvious that I need to write when I think about it. Duchamp and my will to build usually limit my wish to come down to earth and remember that it won’t be obvious for other people to decode the message I wish they do it slowly but effectively.

In this lifestyle that crashes with my ideals I punish myself by building, painting and dreaming high. I will never understand my past but I can feel comfortable with it. I feel happy just to know this. I feel glad memories aren’t trying to push me down constantly. Not even recent ones.

People don’t understand why I write wherever I go. But it’s simple for me now: It’s just because I can. If I had a pen in my had I would start making it less and less obvious and my writing would quickly become a drawing, that drawing would change into a mind puzzle and so on and so forth.

I just can’t do it anymore. It’s enough now. Just go back home. You don’t want to stay in this restaurant. You want to know about the people in the house and to sort out a dissertation. You can do it. You just have to focus and work hard without punishing yourself. It’s healthy to do sculpture and painting but not writing. Because writing comes to you when you’re down. When you love and you can’t love. Writing is always about frustration for me. About the things you wished were possible to transfer into words and aren’t. Let’s risk it and make this the worst text in the world.

Rose Selavy… Interesting name! I’ll figure out who her husband was.
Ç’est la vie! É fodido viver o que toda a gente queria viver...