Under the Stairs, Spin Chairs, and Trunks in the Mist
![Image](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-BH9BmWFN677uVZrmFEIYj4V370NQOqAJh-O0ELR-AW9hC4jDNp4fSKYwdni15w_1j5h60acFoNu3PCTmnwBneO9l7gLtZTx3Rbc_xTyankJEpPvttc9sJzI7oqHL9JybDC-8kFGiAsnY/s320/Moisture+Drop.jpg)
Party-time was always difficult for me. I wanted to go, but when I got there, I was that weird guy that was sitting on the roof or outside in the tree, looking at the stars and thinking about whatever came to mind. When I danced, I was usually by myself, exploring the inside of things. The world around me pulsed and moved and I absorbed it and then spun and wove it into my own story. It was my narrative. It fed me and when I returned to my studio, where I would regurgitate the narrative in some fashion, I would revel in the knowledge that I had gained about the universe. My narrative grew as my radio antennae gleaned from the mazal dripping from above and became a life of its own. It spun its way into many objects and images. Giant posters and murals of TVs and couches were sprouting around the towns that I lived in. Spinning living rooms and clay cartoons crept from my mind and splashed with clanks and splats, as they formed themselves from the unconscious universe, unknowingly collec