cursing with Twombly

 
Twombly’s thought bubble screams with the unsayable, as Rilke called it, “the space that no word has ever entered.” I’m with Twombly, swearing and screaming my ass off the way a toddler or a cat swears – the fury is there, the intention-– if not the words. I haven’t felt comfortable writing in my blog since April; if I’m sad, I’m maudlin and overwrought. If I’m angry, I’m an embittered divorcee.  If I post something happy, I obviously don’t care.  Everything I want to express lately swarms in the vortex of a buzzing thought bubble. Read me uncensored in the eye of it. Imagine words before they become words, the unadorned  impulse and itch. 

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