Some absolutely fabolous news; my father and sister documented my "smart" (hardly, more like witty) textile, a piece of fabric I wove that responds to heat. I was so happy I almost cried.

Yes, it's not turned the right way. OR IS IT?

Anyways, beautiful light.

Yesterday, in a frenzy, I drew with sumi ink on some tissue paper and pasted it to the wall with water - after I peeled off/it fell off, this is what it looked like, the impression of it, or the ghost (or shadow).

I don't really know what to think, or if it is at all conducive to what I'm trying to do, and I guess I don't really know what I'm doing either. Ugh.

Then I painted on my feet (the ink doesn't 'stick' very well; it rather lies in droplets of the surface of the skin, which is perhaps too dry, or not soft enough or something - I wonder what part of the body is most receptive to ink, or rather, who's skin?), naturally, and thought about The Pillow Book, and wasn't really sure how to proceed. Not so much because I've walked down that path before, but because it feels like I'm re-tracing my own steps, and walking backwards rather than forwards? Is that what progress feels like, or stagnancy?

Some stills from the movie, it is very beautiful.

Images found here, here and there.

There are many things to be said for The Pillow Book, especially the language in it, and ink and skin, and love also, I suppose, although that is something I will not dare write about here.

This morning I came in a little later as I was full of self-pity over a sore throat; I decided to write on the wall and the floor, as I haven't had the space to do that before. Don't know what this is either - will not make it out to be more than it is, but interesting? A little bit? I am not sure where this will lead me. I am thinking about ink and water and paper, but not like I used to, in a different way now. Does it matter what I write, and does it matter whether it's real language or not?

Some things: communication, miscommunication, someone's own, private language, understanding and translation, the feeling of language, or rather, the feeling of somebody? discipline, in language, life and otherwise.

What is madness, and what is obsessiveness? If I cover this entire space, what purpose will that serve? It makes me think of this:

You write those numbers up, ol' Jim!

Images from 23 and The Omen (from 2006). There's this idea that crazy, obsessive people have rooms full of paper and writing, like some way of organizing information? Which is what words on a page are, also - a way of organizing information, knowing in what order to read it. However, in the madman's case, he's taken it out of the book and spread it all over, so he can see it all at the same time. Why is that crazy? It makes sense to me; you want an overview of something, not just page by page.

I drew some more on the wall, over the old imprints. Yes, it's boring, but I'm thinking, alright. Having my own studio is both the top and the bottom - so great to have time and space, and so terrifying/boring/intense/scary/overwhelming/desperate.

And then I found an incredible artist whose name is Jayoung Yoon. Ahh, she is grrrgeous. Some images:

Here and here.

Ahh, come into my life, please.

She seems to make dresses out of hair, her own, and other 'structures', like dreams, or shields, or thoughts, or vapors (like the fabled 21 grams that "disappear" from your body when you die - the soul?). These pieces are apparently like meditations, and she builds whole sets for these, with lights and structures and everything, and the result is the video or the photograph. So simple... I think I will try to meet her.