I am overcome these days with passionate, flaming ambivalence. It wells up within me like a lack of fire out of control. I am consumed. How do I feel about my plight? Whatever. It doesn't matter.
My pro-diversity art project isn't going well at all. I had this beautiful idea that I would go into a public place, like a park or museum or library, and paint all the people different colors, really bright, wonderful, vibrant colors. No one gets it, though. It doesn't matter what color we are. We're all the same inside. It's a simple message, but everyone just gets angry when I start spraying the paint on them. It's sad how many people are racists and bigots. It wears off in a few weeks. It's only permanent on hair and clothing, not skin. Nevertheless, people are so attached to the color of their skin and clothing and hair that they cannot stand to be any other color for even a few minutes, much less weeks. Instead of appreciation or praise for my visionary artistic leadership, people just scream, "What the hell are you doing!" or "What the fuck is wrong with you!" or "My eyes! It burns! OH GOD MY EYES!" It depresses me. I guess the world just isn't ready for an artist like me.
Maybe I'll move on to my "Projectiles of Beauty" project, my idea to splatter-paint commercial airplanes in flight. We don't just have to shoot each other with weapons that kill. We can shoot each other with love and understanding and bright, happy paint delivered by surface-to-air missiles. Maybe people will understand that idea more readily.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
