Luke MacGilvray

When the world becomes a Francis Bacon painting...when uranium orchids crackle in the foehn wind...that is my world. Not pessimistic, just optimistic about nothing. A good, hard, iron-gray day with weeping rain squirming down the windows, a kinetic electricity charging across artificial landscapes-or equally interesting a glacial blue sky day, where the yellow of the sun fights with the piercing azure of the sky, such a beautiful sight that it hurts to try and have it all-these are my favorite days to be alive. The rest of the time is cheap, damp wool in comparison. I like to flip over rocks along life's road and look at the things that have a squirming existence parallel to our struggle of animal vs. intellect, our homo sapiens sapiens lofty moniker that needs to be tested daily. I like to twist languages around into things that should not exist simply for the savage joy and barking laughter in an echoing, empty room. I like to laugh and I like to think and I like to do. And somewhere inside here is a shadow that lies across this machine called me, a grey gossamer of bittersweet. An acquired taste.