The world was spinning at the beginning of this semester. The cracked, volcanic ground unsteady, basalt columns rising, projecting their harsh black masses against the void sky. I was in-between homes, balancing a move, balancing a strange, literature-free semester. How does it feel? The hurricanes, funnels of grey water like pillars, were by the dozen rising from the ocean surface to the clouds in immense vortexes of power. I exaggerate. But I saw them in my dreams. Water comes to me in dreams, always. So I was going out. I was debating dropping a class. This one, specifically. Then, best friend's birthday came, and went: anticlimactic, in a too-loud-too-bright-too-fancy bar, and she wasn't even there. So I left with friends in hunt of a better scene, one with sweat and microphones and dirty streets. But the bars were closing. Went home to someone else's empty apartment. Dog-sitting. Temporary, green. I woke up 3 hours later, inspired. Time had stopped, influenced by impulsivity of the night before, and I saw my surroundings objectively. We create a space for time in our indoor places. Habitations. This one was green, distorted in a friendly way, like its emptiness and foreign ownership had left its mild stain on the walls. 

So I set about puzzling a painting in my head. One that would disorient, full of questioning distortions. In green, in a swampy, organic mess. The swamp is a fertile place of birth. The chaos in which molecules coerce themselves into thriving cohorts, seeds, human babies, emotions.

Layers. I needed layers. The first one, vaguer, darker, blurred. Then one on top, crisper, sharper, more defined, more real. The third layer adds a surreal combination of angles, clocks, and words. Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws. Why? To wrap together the whirling disorientation.