The attendent who took me was supposed to supervise me the entire time, instead they ran off ot the Mall of America. I was left standing out there for five and a half hours. The attendent's breath reeked of cheap beer when he finally showed up to take me back. I think he spent some time in Hooters.
I had a lot of time to really think about things. Really think. Things. I originally started this blog in order to compile a journal of my thoughts and impressions, to put my notes outside the reach of those who would suppress my voice, stifle my words, destroy my work. That had been the idea. But then I found the old, battered and water-stained portfolio of my old drawings. It had been shoved haphazardly in-between an old bookcase and the crumbling plaster wall of my attic space. My secret space. The other one.
Old drawings. Old. My hands hurt. It's cold up here and the wind is howling mournfully. Old drawings are scattered across my table, on my chair, all over the floor. Someone has been digging around in my old art. But they'll never find it. I made sure of it. Everything that I scanned-in and posted to the blog, I also burned. I keep the ashes in a rusty coffee can in the corner by the rattling, burbling radiator across from my table. They'll never find it. I made sure of it.
Five and a half hours is long time to consult with someone. But I'm going to war soon, and whom better to discuss strategy with than dead soldiers? They liked my drawings, the old ones from the Seventies, the ones that I burned for them down by the little pond. My secret is safe with them. We have an arrangement. Soon I'll have reinforcements.
