Letter Never Sent
I was gas huffing one afternoon, by the train tracks near the smelter, trying to shotgun iso nitrite through my paint gun and boom — whoosh! — it hit me.
It was a wrap, and on came a visual rap of distortions through time — shit I hadn’t remembered in forever, cascading — distortion to static.
Momentarily I was up on a Brady Bunch screen: Momma, Pappa, Uncle Justus, Chelsea and Me — the other four were faceless homonculii, who despite lacking features had silver metallic paint smeared all over the bottom of their faces. Well, we had a Brady Bunch, anyway, in garish dayglo.
Letter never sent. The ideal copy.
“Ah, good taste, what a dreadful thing! Taste is the enemy of creativeness.”
— Pablo Picasso