Rearticulation

I’m not sure if this looks like anything to other people, but it’s feeling more and more like the restaurant I used to visit most days in my late twenties.
When I was a little boy, I had a fantasy that I might one day recreate an image exactly how it is seen with the human eye. In my juvenile mind, this entailed painting a picture with the edges all blurred, because I felt that when you looked at something, only the point you were looking at was in sharp focus, and everything, from that point out, becomes gradually more and more out of focus. I felt if I accomplished this accurately, and people looked at this picture, they would be transformed somehow – it would be like the renaissance, when someone figured perspective out, and visual communication was never be the same again.
Now I think something similar, but slightly different. I think I don’t see anything in focus. I just see colours and lines and these are combined with temperature and smell and the other senses somehow. It is combined with all sorts of things, but essentially it is a blur of sensation, tinged with a bit of memory and a bit of expectation.

Hurry tomorrow

Wrong design is happy to announce we will be formally backing Barack Obama to be president of the United States. After careful consideration, I think his wife would make a really good first lady.
I was excited thinking Bush II would be leaving this year, but then I realized he won’t be out till Jan 2009. I guess there’s still a little time to make some smart investments in mortuaries in the Middle East. Then I started thinking maybe someone will kill him before then, and then I realized he has the perfect security against assassination – Dick Cheney. What could be worse than Bush II as US president? Dick Cheney. How clever, they really thought of everything. I also realized for the first time that together they are “Bush & Dick”. That’s funny, right? Why did I never see that before?

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This is drawn from photos of “the Palace”, my favorite restaurant till it closed down and became a real estate office. I don’t know what it was really called – we used to call it the “Gangster’s Palace” because it was full of working guys – sweaty men with no shirts on eating in a run-down hole-in-the-wall, just like the great HK movies they used to make before 1997 when China asked the film industry not to produce anything that made it look like the police didn’t have a firm and trustworthy hand on society.

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My illustrious cold has developed into a persistent, dry cough. I know the routine well. This will subside into an annoying little cough that seems to hang around for weeks. Soon my body will pass the barrier from fighting into healing, and I’ll be full of ambition and an urgent need to impregnate my wife. That, and seeing enormous lumps of what I imagine to be ambergris coming out of my body, are my favorite parts.