Came back to an empty house last night. I was by myself for about 5 hours and although at first I took joy in being able to stand on the furniture, sing at the top of my voice and watch music TV by 10pm I was restless and missed my parents to distraction. The house just doesn't feel right without them, a shell full of objects that I haven't looked at properly for years...or perhaps forever. I had forgotten the little wooden house box that sits in the sitting room cabinet...my birth tankard, the glass rabbit. I hate ornaments and yet I wouldn't be without my Buddha and my yin yang vases, ornaments remind me of my grandparents and their varying collection of memorabillia. What about Mary's stone eggs and a bowl of mint imperials. Will I ever stop being so personally sentimental?
Home is comfort, shelter from more than just the weather. A place to keep the things that you think are important, whether they have monetary value or not. So why not a car, a tent, a cardboard box? Too open, too impermanent? My (nomadic) existence is largely impermanent. I crave things, I want to keep anything that carries memories...what can you do when you have too many memories for your brain? You need somewhere to store them. I need an external hard drive.
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Was this what Warhol was trying to do, store ideas beyond his brain? Apart from the impermenence of everything, it was an outlet from himself, a creation of something that leaves your body...is this why I'm doing it. The need to communicate, the need to concretise some of my thoughts and ideas in performance rather than just brain. Working things out, out loud?
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