14 Mar 2003
I write words, I talk to myself, I take pictures and review them late at night, in order to find things, to build a model; I want to make synaptic connections, semantic categories, distinctions, links, abstractions, contrasts, information, order.
But I’m nervous. I’m nervous, no, I’m afraid, that I will fail — actually, I know that I’ll fail, but what I’m really afraid of is that I can’t not fail, that failure is the only option, that success isn’t even possible, not even ideally. When I think of things like Pi, I get fidgety, my heart races a little, and I am definitely not at rest. Pi is a the ultimate question mark; it’s nature’s Fuck You. You can calculate it all you want, baby, but you’re not going to get to the bottom of it. This whole universe is a spinning top, and Pi is its wobble, and you know what that means, and it’s unsettling, it’s irrational, and That. Scares. Me.