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.
