Art earns this title because it borrows from the opening line when The Prince, in Katamari Damacy, descends to Earth to gather as many objects as possible to craft a star in the sky. He’s sent by The King of All Cosmos after a night of drunkenness and galactic destruction, his voice dubbed by the sound of a scratched record.
The explosion of that heap of objects stuck to that magical ball always served as a shortcut to fill any blank space on a sheet of paper.
Here, I used almost a single nib until it failed, with only a few parts rendered with heavier ink, a technique I gradually abandoned over time. There was so much hidden love in that period; this concealment also manifested in bursts of aggression, and light, everyday scenes frequently contrasted with grimy, dreamlike settings. A new feeling that seemed to tickle a sensitive area of my brain.
Here, I used almost a single nib until it failed, with only a few parts rendered with heavier ink, a technique I gradually abandoned over time. There was so much hidden love in that period; this concealment also manifested in bursts of aggression, and light, everyday scenes frequently contrasted with grimy, dreamlike settings. A new feeling that seemed to tickle a sensitive area of my brain.
Much of what I listened to then is imprinted here—The Smiths’ debut, Bowie in Scary Monsters. I was always out on Augusta Street or at some park, surrounded by random people, clouds of smoke, and drinks of every kind. The image of a boy sitting on the curb repeats itself, but this time, it’s empty—just a mess of trash, bottles, and skinny jeans walking back and forth.
In the dreams of the freshly moved-into, barely plastered house, I was often visited by indigenous figures stirring my nights with mixes of astral projections and sleep paralysis. There’s a flame encircling the lace tattoo on my best friend’s thigh, her first of many, paired with a shirt featuring the most unbearable Beatles song.
The barrels again. This time, all marked with the symbol of absence. A hole within me that flung me in every direction, like a carpet tripping up a drunk.
On weekdays, the house was orchestrated by the same TV programs and the conventions of the same schedules: my niece clinging to furniture as she learned to walk, the naps after cleaning the house, the creative idleness of long hours afforded by unemployment. Occasionally, there were appointments at the health clinic, at times when you’d only find retirees and those unhurried.
During Friday cleanings, a mix of powdered soap and bleach was used to scrub the floor. I could climb onto the arm of the sofa, lift the broomstick, and standing there, feel like the King of All Cosmos… entirely dressed as a Disco Music star.
So that in the endless repetition of those identical days, I could become someone else, and then another, just as all those pieces of furniture and corners of the house did.