What am I going to do?

What am I going to do?  If I run out of things to say.  It's what I usually feel when I start the blog.  But I never run out of things to say because really I never really say anything anyhow.

I used to write to my blue bubble friend.  He lives in the future and wants to write something original for his art class.  So he picked something not so original but at least unknown.  Me.  And it made him feel safer.  No comparisons necessary in a way.  He could make any points or comparisons he wants and not have to worry about them too much.

But also a funny, a kind of odd sort of something, happened.  Thank god.  He began to like my work.  He in fact grew surprisingly to admire it in the way he pretended to admire it.  He found it amusing, disturbing almost, a sort of uniqueness seemed to show up in it that he hadn't realized was there.

And he even thought he sort of liked the muddy colors.  He certainly liked all the trash in them since each item is so gone so old fashioned.  And he actually laughed once or twice when he discovered special relationships among the trash.  And he came up with an idea.  Since they are for the most part carefully dated, he thought he would go through them and discuss what different kinds of trash meant.

Like, well it's getting toward Thanksgiving and Christmas  (remember those things?) and special wrapping paper starts to appear, more batteries, and I don't know, uh candy wrappers etc. all the junk that comes through then.

And in the autumn there are the sorts of things you expect like ant poison and papers from and about his kid's schools.  That was sort of easy and fun. 

But of course he has to talk about composition and structure.  All the stuff that is so boring really.

But suddenly, out of nowhere, he came across the oceans of letters I had written him so long ago (not really because this dumb shit came in my house and stole all of those early this year).  Well maybe they turn up or maybe I've got photographs of them.  At any rate in my fantasy he has them and they really do seem to be to him.  Him alone.

And they touch him.  They reach in to his desperate and lonely heart.  And he is taken.  He becomes a convert.  He must rewrite.  Start over.  Take this seriously. He works with fire now.  He uncovers a cache of personal artifacts and communication with others...

Ten years later he is done.  Of course this was only the beginning of his career.  He later uncovers more outliers, stars of the chaotic movement those planos we now call The Recoverists, those artists from the early 21st century, whose work expressed the need to celebrate the greatness and shabbiness of what had already past in those last days of that country. Now it is five separate countries.

He is my one fan. And greatest fan.  And in fact my only fan.  My blue bubble friend. 

Hello my dear friend.  This is for you.