October 30, 1978
This is the story of my life. I'm writing for the first time on ruled lines. Holding within boundaries, writing down parallel lines. Normally, I have trouble reading my journals, a hodge-podge of angles, directions and moods. This book is an attempt at going in one general direction. Following the lines as laid out by the Mead Corporation of Dayton, Ohio, not to mention years of American tradition.
I have avoided this kind of book, because as an artist, I always felt it necessary to have blank pages, for those pictures that invariably spring to mind while the artist strolls down Market St. My most recent journal, on blank pages, contained fourteen "illustrations". a large majority being pasted on pictures which would be affected by blue horizontal lines only by placement, image not impeded to any degree. And there is [not] no question to the fact that an artist;s "sketch" looks more authentic when it is on this form of paper. It is almost as validifying as a textured surface, ie napkin, oilcloth, etc. Also, I no longer feel any great desire to be an artist. I would like to hole up somewhere with my 45s and write about being forecefed art rhetoric, about the lack of forcefeeding, about the need for forcefeeding, & the undeniable thrill from forcefed.