I felt the fondness of the wind this morning. I sailed in my dreams on the way to the office. Underground I sat thinking. I am an artist. The psuedo spring rings its bells but I fail to answer them. I am imprisoned by failure. The Greater New York Show. What is so great about it? Why do these crafty titans refuse me? Ignore me? Stifle me with their pale curatorial efforts? My fairy butler is enraged. It is all I can do to keep him from cursing and hexing. He will build a steel wall that will rise to a tall steepled tower. At the top will be a pen where water is fire and land crumbles to dust. The farters will pay eventually. The clear buckets of gruel will wear them down and turn their bones to quicksilver.
I cannot contain the fury of my butler much longer. He aches to perform justice. But the question still lingers... perhaps the failure is mine?
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Fairy Butler,
You are such a tender lass! Who could deny your true whimsy and excitement in nature? You make me want to turn nice. I bet you have nice pointy ears and soft silky peach-colored hair.
I didn't get in either. I was really sad about it. I think the whole thing is hateful and especially because it is more of the same. I hate.
What is justice? The meaning of revenge? The elusive nature of clear gruel? I find the answers fail to provide succor when the true, underlying question is one of personal failure. If you asked the fairy butler the true meaning of any of those questions (and for a real answer you must provide him with a weeks supply of plums soaked in the finest Irish Creme) he would tell you the answer is: "I love you. And my love grows ever stroinger through my shared hatred of all purile f-artists and their milqetoast minions of mediocrity."
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