2002-03-20 - 3:31 PM

For the past two days, I have been in a smear of multi-colored mechanical automation, switched to autopilot, a ball of crumpled metal in a dusty field of vacant, hollow automobiles. I became a robot, I became a lizard king, I became an artist and a demi-muse. I decided to draw about what I felt, and ended up having a crude black and white page of cartoonishly represented but appropriate wide eyes, cogs and wires, a man holding on to his own head by a string, because it is a helium balloon. Robots with screws for eyes and a lightbulb for an awkward mouth, a man whose head looks like a "dried up grape", hooks on robotic springy arms, a smiley face talking about licking rocks. "How I feel right now," I wrote on the bottom of the page in penciled lettering, adjacent to the picture of my landlord disguising himself as a coffee cup, and a picture of a coffee cup disguising itself as my landlord. Satan, wearing a forked business tie, pouts from the margin of a random page, holding a sled and wishing that it hailed in hell. My lamp pops up from where I couldn't see it before, playing peek-a-boo or checking up to see what I am doing. I think I am very tired, and with mental processes restricted to rust-covered vats resembling earlier models of EZ Bake Ovens, I don't know how I ever got along without this delusion for so long. He sticks his tongue out for only in instant, quick darts as if tasting the air, or trying to catch an insect, like some sort of frog. His glasses slide down his head to reveal beady glass eyes, and I think, "Zoinds! He IS a frog!"