S U N D A Y . N O V E M B E R . 1 S T . 1 9 9 8

The near silence is delicious in union with the oncoming bright crisp fall morning. The plaza is quiet, as it is every Sunday morning with the waterfall providing it's continuous round of running water. I can hear the faint sounds of distant cars and the disturbing hum of the vacuum in the space just above, this my Sunday ritual.

I've only ever had one job that did not require me to work a Sunday, but they called me at home anyway so what was the point. Yet this particular place has such ambiance and peace. To the front the courtyard with the dancing water and white wrought-iron seats content in being unencumbered. To the back a private horse farm with a half dozen or so horses that were saved from slaughter. There is great history here, here on the East End. Histories sadly clouded by pseudo-decadence and want to be 'Jet Set' attitude. If you look closely in the faces and the eyes of the apparent 'beautiful people' you'll see the flat gray numbness lingering there, there in the well-trained smiles.

The horses mingle and play innocently in warming sun, bound by their non-threatening easily jumped yet electrified fences. There seems to be a parallel between the horses and our selves in that type of restricted freedom. On the one hand freedom is given and surroundings can encourage growth and play. Yet on another level punishment for exceeding certain boundaries are lingering there visible but not formally introduced.

I hadn't meant to be so deep this morning but something happens after the drive here and the introduction of the keyboard to my fingers. They seem to have their own agenda, their own story to tell. I the shell, the performer for the passion to create or produce for it's self something tangible and physical to the eye.

B O O

STOP EATING SO MUCH CANDY ALREADY.
YOU'LL GET YOURSELF A TUMMY ACHE!